SelfContained
by A Kiss For A Kill
Summary: A collection of one-shots and drabbles. Altair/Malik, Ezio/Leonardo, Desmond/Shaun and their vice-versa pairings inside. SLASH WARNING. Rated M to be safe. Bad language will undoubtedly occur eventually...
1. Drabble Meme

**A/N:** This is a little something I wrote and tossed on to my Deviant Art account at three in the morning. Basic rules for the meme:

a character, pairing, or fandom you like.

2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.

3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!

4. Do ten of these, then post them.

This is what was born of that prompt: 10 music-fueled Altair/Malik drabbles. As it stands, I'm leaving this as a WIP (work in progress) because I know that I'll eventually end up doing more of these or just tossing out more oneshots later and needing a place to collect them all. :3

**_DISCLAIMER:_** The songs referenced herein do not belong to me. I wish they did because I love all ten of them. Assassin's Creed and the associated characters are similarly borrowed from Ubisoft. That's probably a good thing because I would edit the first game so there would be a "Press Y to sexually assault Malik" glitch in the Jerusalem bureau. There would also be more opprotunities to hug Leonardo in the second one. But! That matters not.

* * *

**1) "21st Century Cure"** by The Repo: The Genetic Opera Cast

Altair walked quickly through the busy streets. It was market day. People were milling around, getting in his way, despite the fact that it was getting closer to sunset. He'd spent the entire day working on creating armor and weapons from the metal he'd managed to create using knowledge from the damnable Apple…

But despite everything that he learned from the Apple, it didn't change the fact that he missed the time when things were simpler… The days when there were lazy days with Malik, kissing in their rooms when no one was looking… Now he had a position of power, they both did, and their meetings were forced to be more rushed… Before all the technology… Altair sighed to himself. Just as well… He walked a little faster to get to his beloved.

* * *

**2) "Legal Assassin"** By Repo: The Genetic Opera Cast  
There were some days where it was all he could do to keep from screaming. He thought he'd found stability once with Adha. The Templars had taken her, beaten her, raped her, killed her. Then there was the Templar woman, Maria. She had done nothing more than offer him a son. And now look what had happened. She'd been discovered "fraternizing with the enemy" and she had died. Because of him. Because it was his job as the Eagle of Masyaf to kill those who threatened the fundamentals of human nature.

Altair leaned against the wall near the window, watching the sun rise. He heard a slight noise from behind him and he glanced over his shoulder at the bed where Malik lay. He didn't have to tell Malik that he was terrified of the future, scared for his son and a future overrun by Templar bastards. Just like he didn't have to tell Malik that without him, he was lost. He smiled to himself, glad he didn't have to lie to himself, lie to a wife about what he really did. Malik didn't make him the villain. Malik didn't make him the monster in the horror show. And that's all Altair could ever hope for.

* * *

**3) "Nineveh"** By E.S. Posthumus

It was something that Malik had always admired about Altair, the way he walked. It was caught somewhere between an indignant slouch and the smooth predatory walk of a cat trailing after an unsuspecting mouse. Truth be told, he loved everything about Altair. The way he walked, the little noises he made when something surprised him, the way he would pout using only his eyes (though how he managed that, Malik didn't know), but he especially loved the way Altair would whisper his name in the dead of night when the rest of the world slept.

They were usually quiet moments, and usually after heated words that lead to heated sex and ended with Malik listening to the rhythmic thump of his lover's heart. Even in those quiet moments, those moments when Altair bared everything, there was still that predatory edge, that possessiveness to his words. But Malik couldn't claim to be bothered by it.

* * *

**4) "The Bird and the Worm"** by Owl City

It didn't matter that it was the middle of the night and that Malik hadn't slept well the past few nights. Altair was screaming in his sleep again. Someone had to stop him civilly before someone lost their head and stabbed him to make it cease.

Altair would always snap out of it with wild and frightened eyes that would calm only when they settled on Malik. But that was fine.

They were always seen bickering and arguing over something during the daylight hours. That was just the way that things had been between them for far too long. They knew what to say and do to make each other blush in the private moments they stole together. They were opposites in every way and they clashed regularly, but it was perfect for them, in a dysfunctional way that only they could ever hope to understand.

* * *

**5) "Distance" **by Karsh Kale

It was a very dangerous dance. Tangling with an angry mother wildcat would have been safer than threatening Malik, even if it was just the angry words of a scorned student.

The dark gleam in Altair's eyes could never be mistaken for anything other than an angry promise that there would be no next time. Malik insisted that he needed no protection, but it changed nothing. Altair insisted that if the novice were so efficient with his sword, then a match between the two of them would pose no challenge.

Malik threw his hand in the air in a gesture of surrender to Altair's stubbornness and he left the practice ring. Altair had never forgiven himself for the loss of his lover's arm. He'd be damned if he'd let someone else bring it up and use it as ammunition against him.

Malik didn't mind watching Altair lash out as much as he thought he would. He watched Altair concentrate solely on the feeling of the sword in his hand, the position of his feet, the moves of his opponents… It was like living poetry, or moving art. Watching Altair fight the way he did in the practice ring… It made him question the presence of some of the scars that littered the other man's body, the scars he had memorized, every single one, despite their number.

* * *

**6) "The End of Heartache"** by Killswitch Engage

The war was the worst thing to not only happen to the world, but to Malik personally. It had taken his father, his brother, his arm, and now it was threatening to take the only other person he'd found the courage to love.

If the Templars weren't so insistent on creating a "new world order" where the people were mindless sheep, Altair wouldn't resort to spending so much time staring into the Apple, wouldn't put his sanity on the line every time the Templars did something that threatened them and their way of life.

It took him months to convince Altair that the Apple was not the answer to everything. It took him almost two years and angry, biting kisses to convince him that there was still something worth living for in the world. But after the first time, it wasn't so difficult to wrench him away from the Piece of Eden.

It had been a violent kiss, full of clicking teeth and clawing hands, a kiss that conveyed all of the anger and desperation and sheer _loneliness_ that Malik had bottled up since Al-Mualim's betrayal. That was what it had taken to bring Altair from his self-imposed stupor. After that, all it took was the _promise_ of such heart-felt kisses and subsequent _activities_ to snap Altair out of whatever odd mood he was currently in.

* * *

**7) "Lonely Soul"** by UNKLE

Altair rather enjoyed entertaining an air of doom and gloom. It tended to force people away, tended to give him more space. After he'd killed Kaddar, taken Malik's arm, murdered his master, it was no longer an air. He flitted through the halls of the fortress like a specter. A very solid, very deadly specter, but a ghost none the less.

He spoke often, when he spoke at all, of leaving, of going to a Bureau somewhere in Europe and fighting the Templars on their own ground. He didn't tell the whole truth. He said it was an attempt to end the war as soon as he could. The whole truth was that he was afraid of staying in any one place long enough to get attached to anyone. He'd come to the conclusion that he had the worst luck, especially when it came to love.

Adha, dead. Malik, handicapped. Maria, even, was sent into hiding somewhere in a country whose name he couldn't remember. The Assassins didn't trust her and the Templars called her a traitor.

Altair resigned himself to being forced to live as a drifter, never staying in one place… Until Malik had thrown him against a wall and demanded he stop sulking. Altair hadn't bothered pushing him away. He had stood there silently, listening to Malik scream and berate him like a novice who had botched an elementary mission. He felt he owed the one-armed man that much.

"You think only from your own perspective even now. I see in your eyes that you pity me. You are the only one. I do not even feel pity for myself, and yet there you are." Malik spat.

"I'm sorry." Altair mumbled.

"Stop being sorry. Stop being so…So withdrawn! God strike me where I stand for saying this, but I believe I am almost beginning to miss that cocky smirk of yours. There's no other here with a wit quick enough to come close to yours in an argument, and given how stupid you are, it's a feat to be proud of!"

Altair smiled at the joke. It was one they'd shared for years. It was one he hoped they'd continue to share until the end…

* * *

**8) "Tikal"** by E.S. Posthumus

Altair ran, his feet hardly touching the rooftops as he went. There were yelling guards, scrambling archers and screaming arrows all around him. He'd already been injured twice, once by an archer who very nearly managed a solid shot, and another time by one of his pursuers who got lucky with a scimitar.

He could hear only the pounding of his heart and his own ragged breaths as he waited for the guards to overlook his hiding spot. He was close to the bureau, but he knew Malik would refuse to open the door, even for him, if the guards were looking… Once the heard of people thundered past, Altair slipped out of the rooftop garden and hurried in the opposite direction. Malik was just sliding the entrance open when Altair arrived, dropping into the room with as much grace as he could muster, given the blood loss and the exhaustion.

"Another mess you've gotten into." Malik muttered as he gathered the medical supplies. He sat down to tend to Altair and the bleeding man grabbed his chin and forced a kiss to his lips.

"Another excuse to see you."

* * *

**9) "Label"** by Render

They hurled names and insults like impetuous children, but there was more venom and more bitter promises behind every word they spoke. At any given time, both one of them could explode and it would all be over. They called each other every name they could think of and worse.

But when the screams died down, they promised not to use such harsh words. They whispered what the other wanted to hear. It didn't matter what they called each other when they yelled, which was rather often, especially with stress levels so high. What mattered was that they knew the names were meaningless names that would never stick. Except for Malik's loving use of the term "Idiot" when describing his lover and Altair's pet-name of "Cynic" when talking to the only person he'd ever truly loved.

* * *

**10) "Drunken Lullabies"** by Flogging Molly

Altair, on principle, tried to avoid drinking. But it was his twentieth birthday, he was allowed to celebrate. There had been strong wine and many other alcohols passed around. Songs were sung far too loudly and off-key. There were harem girls dancing and giggling and rich food was all around. It was no secret that Altair was the favorite of Al-Mualim. It was also generally well-known that, despite his prickish attitude, Altair wasn't one to be stingy with the favors, especially when the favor was a party such as this.

He'd stumbled off into some corner, looking for enough quiet to push away his headache and he'd bumped into a very intoxicated Malik.

"You know, I have quite the present for you." Malik slurred.

"Oh yeah?" Altair asked.

Malik grinned, nodded, leaned forward, and planted a sloppy, drunken kiss on Altair's scarred lips. Altair was shocked at first, but he decided to go along with it. It was, by far, the best birthday present he could remember (not that he could remember much beyond his own name at the moment), and, he hoped, the beginning of something beautiful. Behind the kissing duo, the party raged on, their drinking songs rising ever louder.

* * *

**A/N2:** Hope these weren't _too_ painful to read. I have teeny-tiny little favor to ask, and I only ask because I had (have?) this problem with my other AC fic: I LOVE that you favorite the story, but please, please, please leave a review. I don't care if it's just "OMGZ! LURVE!" I'm not Altair. My ego is fragile. X3 Beyond that, I really hope you enjoyed it.


	2. Kiwi

**_DISCLAIMER:_** Ubisoft owns the characters. Damn it all... If, for whatever reason, they wanted to transfer ownership to me, hey, I'm not complaining. I am, however, complaining that Desmond and Shaun don't spend enough time together in the warehouse. This is my solution. :D

**A/N:** This one is short, sweet, and to the point. Desmond, Shaun, and a kiwi fruit... To the reviewers...

**RanchDressing:** Ohdear... To be honest, I'm not really someone that replays a game over and over because it's fun. Once I've figured out the storyline and the end credits have rolled, I'm over it. I'm beating the first Assassin's Creed for the umpteenth time and the second one for the fourth. But, at any rate, I'm glad you enjoyed the stories. :D

**MrsPhantomSylvia:** So glad you enjoyed.

**M.M.:** I tried to keep them in character, especially Altair. Just thinking about the "Press Y" glitch makes me giggle. In fact, my brother is staring at me for giggling right now...

**Miss Ziya:** I think "Label" was one of my favorites. I enjoyed the song and I enjoyed what I managed to churn out in two and a half minutes of songtime. XD And again, seriously. The "Press Y" glitch should happen. RIGHT NOW!

**Gooooodpie:** Hopefully I'll get to the EzioLeonardo soon... But for the moment, have some ShaunDes. And I agree. There should be more. :3

**Sazuka-chan:** I think the stories will eventually start getting longer... I'm actually writing like five stories at one time right now. Huuuuuge pain in the ass, but I'm ADD, soooo... lol

**Gabriel:** I have to tell you that I seriously hard-core blushed when I read that you called me "puddin". I'm not going to lie to you. I'm so glad you liked them.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Shaun asked. Desmond blinked dumbly at him.

"What do you mean?" Desmond asked slowly.

"You're supposed to peel those first." Shaun nodded at the fruit in Desmond's hand. Desmond looked at the kiwi in his hand and raised an eyebrow.

"No, your'e not." Desmond insisted.

"I have spent my entire life eating just the inside of those fruits."

"I had a friend who lived in New Zeland near a kiwi farm. Him and his friends used to steal kiwis and eat them _just like this._" Desmond bit into the kiwi, skin and all. Shaun cringed.

"It's really not that bad. You should try it." Desmond shrugged.

Shaun glanced from the fruit in Desmond's hand, to Desmond's face, and back a few times.

"I might as well... I mean, _you_ don't seem to be dying from it, but that would be just my luck, wouldn't it?" Shaun huffed. He motioned for Desmond to come closer with the fruit.

Desmond stepped closer to the book-cluttered desk, careful to mind the wires and cords leading from Shaun's computer to the Animus and back. Desmond held out the kiwi and very nearly dropped it as Shaun grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled their faces together. Shaun's tongue traced Desmond's lips and mapped the inside of Desmond's mouth. Desmond straddled Shaun's hips and pressed closer.

"If your lips are anything to go by, I'd say eating the entire kiwi is a perfectly delicious thing to do." Shaun smirked. He took the fruit from Desmond's hand and took a bite. There was a tartness to the fruit from the skin that blended with the sweet inside somehow...

"So does this mean I've bested you?" Desmond asked with a cocky smirk.

"Not for a second." Shaun growled. He kissed Desmond again, almost violently, just to remind the little prick of his place.

* * *

**A/N2:** And a dominant Shaun is a sexy Shaun... Anyway... Yes. You _can_ eat a kiwi, skin and all. That's how I eat my kiwi fruits, and yes, I do get plenty of odd looks from time to time. It's actually really good, as long as you don't mind the whole slightly-fuzzy texture thing going on there. Something that I thought of when I was eating a kiwi in my front yard and one of my friends living nearby interrogated me on the nutritional benefits and possible health repercussions of eating a kiwi whole. Hope you liked. :heart:


	3. Til We Die

**A/N:** ANGST WARNING!!! Seriously. This is going to be sad as all get out. I decided I was going to start listening to some old Slipknot albums I had laying around and I couldn't stop thinking about this everytime "Til We Die" came up. So here we go.

**Ranchdressing:** I think the next chapter is going to have a dominant Desmond. :3 I personally just find the entire pairing hot, no matter who's on top. :D

**RavensRequiem:** Oh yes, eating kiwi is now a difficult experience for me. I'm working on one that involves Shaun having a certain love of peppermint... Once I get the kinks worked out (or _in_ as the case may be... XD), you may have another food that induces uncontrollable salivation. X3

* * *

The pistol sat heavy in his hand, the weight too real for it to be a dream, the blood on his hands to warm to be a hallucination. He let the gun fall to the floor with a dull clatter, watched it slip away from him in a puddle of crimson. Desmond stood up, walked away from the crate he'd used as a seat. He didn't care that his white shoes were stained with blood, didn't care that he was leaving footprints in the viscous fluid that seemed to cover the entire floor. It was supposed to be safe here, safe in this warehouse that was so much like the one where he'd first met Shaun...

Desmond closed his eyes for a moment as the memories flashed behind his eyelids. It had always seemed like a motto to him, just something to say, "They'll never, ever take us alive". It was just tradition, something to say, like the Navy SEALS would say everyday "The only easy day was yesterday", just a phrase.

And then Abstergo had kicked their door in, scattered them, sent them into hiding. Desmond had followed Shaun, had promised to protect him. Desmond drug a blood-coated hand across his face, tried to force his eyes into focus. It coldn't be real. It was too terrifying to be real... There was too much wrong with the world for them to fix it all, but they were trying anyway, and that alone lent existance a surreal quality.

In the distance, he could hear sirens, but they sounded distorted, sounded like they belonged in a nightmare.

_"We promise to fight for our fate."_

Somewhere, to his left, an armed man groaned and reached for his pistol. With a snarl, Desmond kicked the weapon away, dropped to his knees, took the man's head in his hands, and gave it a sharp turn, dropping the lifeless body back to the ground when he heard the sudden _crack_ he'd been waiting to hear.

_"We'll never be broken, we won't be denied."_

Desmond shook his head and started climbing the various crates, numbly scaling the walls until he reached the series of iron beams that crossed the high ceiling. He crawled over the I-beams, made his way to a forgotten metal scaffold in the corner and he sat with his back to the wall, trying to keep from sobbing. His fingers brushed idly through rust-brown hair and over cool skin. Desmond pulled Shaun's body into his lap and was only faintly aware that he was crying. The blood had long since dried, heart had long since stopped beating. He remembered lying in bed with Shaun in his arms, talking about everything that made no difference at all. He looked down at Shaun, his glasses missing, faint streaks of blood crossing his face, the hole in his chest... It was his fault... The sirens were close now... Desmond rested his forehead on Shaun's and continued to cry.

The warehouse filled with the sounds of cautious footsteps, crackling radios, and disgusted retching. The cops had arrived. With a final kiss to cold, lifeless lips, Desmond pried the nine millimeter pistol from Shaun's lifeless fingers and made his way to ground level. He rounded a stack of crates and everyone hurried to put him in their sights.

"Put your weapon on the ground and your hands behind your head!" Someone yelled. Desmond ignored them. He ejected the clip and made sure he had enough rounds to do what needed to be done.

"My friends are going to come looking for me." He said, just loud enough to be heard, as he slid the clip back in place.

"Son, just put the gun down." The cop who spoke was older, looking to be in his forties or fifties, looking like he'd done this one too many times, looking more wary than concerned. The three men with him looked down-right nervous.

"They'll come looking for me and you have to tell them what happened here."

"You can tell your friends yourself. You just have to put the gun down."

"No! You're not listening to me." Desmond yelled. He aimed the gun at the older cop and the tension leve in the warehouse rose tangibly.

"You have to tell them that I'm sorry. You have to tell them that I was careless and I'm the reason we were compromised. They have to know that it's my fault that this all happened. They need to know that it's my fault Sh... It's my fault Shaun died." Desmond murmured.

"We can get you help." The cop tried again.

"I'm beyond help. Do you see all of this? All these bodies? All this blood? _I_ did this. _By myself_, I did this." Desmond offered a crazed smile.

"Then there's no reason for you to add to the body count. Just put the gun down, and kick it over to me."

"I can't." Desmond adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger. The bullet harmlessly grazed the old cop's shoulder, sending him stumbling back a few paces more from surprise than anything else. He would live, probably wouldn't even have a scar, but it worked. The remaining men opened fire.

The pain flared hot and bright through Desmond and he sank to his knees. A broken smile crossed his features as he watched blood, _his_ blood, stain his jacket, mingling with the blood of his enemies and his lover. He fell to his side and watched the blood pool around him. He was aware of his gun being kicked away and the rest of the warehouse being searched. He dipped his fingertips in the blood that was pooling around him and he scrawled Shaun's name on the concrete. He was fading. He was going numb. He was dying. A chill presence flooded his mind and he recognized the rough texture of Altair's memories. His hand moved of its own accord and he wrote his love for Shaun in a single Arabic sentence. A smooth and turbulant presence followed, like a silk scarf caught in a hurricane, and Italian letters described their love as nothing short of beautiful. Desmond rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his glassy ochre eyes following the I-beams until they stopped on the scaffold where Shaun's body lay. His smile widened for an instant and the spark behind his eyes faded.

* * *

**A/N2:** That made me so sad to write... I was originally going to continue it with Lucy finding out about the sitation, but this seemed to fit better. I'll make it up to you in the next chapter, promise.


	4. Paperback

**A/N:** I'm not a huge fan of Valentine's Day, and that's why I didn't post this on the 14th. It really has nothing to do with me being angry and single or any of that, more to do with the fact that I think it's become over-commercialized and has become more about seeing how much chocolate or how many diamonds you can collect in a day rather than trying to show how much you love someone. Anyway... More Desmond/Shaun because the last one was depressing and it needs to be made up. Also... **_OVER THE COURSE OF THIS MONTH, I HAVE GOTTEN 1,185 HITS!!!_** You guys make me hella happy, for the record. ;D

**anon:** Yeah. I was crying a little while I wrote the last chapter. :(

**Miss Ziya:** -hugs- And you know what, I think you're right about the "drug" versus "dragged" thing. But that's what I get for typing it up on-site instead of in my word-processer first. XD

**loosegravity123**: I really hope you've come back to read this, and not because I'm going to go on a rant, but because I actually want to give you a serious and honest answer. The truth of the matter is this: The world of Assassins is a shadowy one that you only know about if you're on their side or the other side. Those are the types of secrets that you cna't just confess to any and everyone. No one else would understand what you go through other than another Assassin. So it makes sense in its own right that the only people you can trust are those that you trust your life with, and in that world, you can trust only your fellow Assassins. A relationship represents a certain degree of vulnerability, and you can't be vulnerable around a person unless you trust them. And as far as your assumptions about the characters, we don't really know what the relationship between Altair and Malik was like before the game, so it could have been anything. That would certainly explain the nature of Malik's apology at the end. And for Desmond and Shaun, I think they're both a little immature. I don't think it's too far-fetched to look at their bickering as a defense mechanism because they're too afraid to admit what they feel. Of course, that's probably not what Ubisoft intended, but I call it 'artistic license'. And as far as why _I'm_ writing Assassin's Creed slash like crazy? Well, it's like this: I'm attracted to guys. And truth be told, Malik and Altair represent basically everything that turns me on about guys. So hot+hot= Super hot. Or at least it does to me. Of course, if this argument doesn't make sense, you're welcome to send me an email so we can continue talking.

**AC2ezio:** I'm glad that you like the way I write. Of course, my style may change as I get a little more comfortable with working with the characters, but hey, that's what writing's about. :3

**Ranchdressing:** Oh hell yeah! _No one_ messes with Desmond's Shaunie. XD

* * *

Emotional distance was supposed to come with the territory. Or at least, that's what the stereotype was. Desmond personally hated stereotypes, especially when it was one that he knew should be true, and still couldn't uphold.

He would watch Shaun from the corner of his eye, would watch him read over old files and flilp through ancient books. He would watch the way Shaun would chew on the inside of his lower lip when he couldn't quite figure something out, the way he would turn his iPod up especially loud if something was bothering him but he didn't want to talk about it, the way he took his coffee... Desmond, forr all intents and purposes, was head-over-heels in love. He was also well-aware that the emotion was most likely unrequited. It didn't escape his notice that the only person Shaun's scathing remarks _weren't_ directed at were Lucy Stillman.

Desmond was sprawled on the floor in the empty common room. Lucy was collecting some sort of information on Vidic's plans, Rebecca was off talking to some friend of hers about something called "DDR4 RAM" to "Boost processing speed by a fuck-ton", whatever all of that meant, and Shaun... Well, Desmond wasn't entirely sure where Shaun had run off to. Desmond was too busy readin some book he'd found in Lucy's stack of things. It was a trashy paperback romance, but it was something to do.

"Just when I thought you couldn't be anymore of a girl." Shaun smirked.

Desmond glanced at him over the edge of the book and returned to reading. He heard footsteps and was almost glad that Shaun was walking away.

"'Oh James, you always know just what a girl likes,' Claire breathed heavily against the side of his neck..." Shaun read aloud, his accent somehow making the situation seem dirtier than it did in the book, which Desmond closed so he could look up at the Brit.

"Are you done being immature?" Desmond asked tiredly. Shaun's smirk widened.

"I was just reading along." Shaun shrugged.

Desmond rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Are you going to run away?" Shaun taunted.

Desmond turned to face him, but said nothing.

"What's wrong Claire, afraid I won't know just what you like?" Shaun continued teasing Subject Seventeen.

"Don't start what you can't finish." Desmond growled.

"Insinuating that you'd like to act out that little scene from your purloined book?"

Desmond responded by grabbing the front of Shaun's shirt and kissing him. It was firm, but it wasn't rough. Desmond took control, but he took Shaun's wants into consideration as well. Shaun grabbed at Desmond, grabbed at whatever he could. He wanted _more_, but he wasn't sure what exactly it was that he wanted. Desmond pulled away from him with a faint smile. Shaun took a stuttering breath and his hands curled into fists with the fabric of Desmond's jacket wound in his fingers.

"You missed your line, _Claire_." Desmond purred teasingly.

"Fuck you, Miles." Shaun smiled.

"Close enough."

* * *

**_DISLAIMER_ (down here because up there was too cluttered):** I still don't own Lucy, Rebecca, Shaun, or Desmond. I wish I did because that would mean no more disclaimers. :D


	5. Cold

**A/N:** This is just a little bit of... Well... I'm not sure what to call it, so we'll just go with "immaturity". A random little ficlet spawned of my own issues with circulation and frequently asking, "Hey, are my hands cold?" and then immediately touching the back of someone's neck. :D **_I PROMISE THAT I'LL GET TO THE MALIK/ALTAIR AND EZIO/LEONARDO SOON!!_ My bastard muse is just currently super obsessed with men of the European persuasion with emphasis on the UK. (If you think I'm kidding, take a look at the Call of Duty collection I have running.)**

**RavensRequiem:** This is another angle on Desmond/Shaun. I like the idea of theirs being a complex and multi-faceted relationship. :3 And don't worry, I'm a little slow sometimes too. XD

**AC2ezio:** Update is here, and a full-length fic is still in the works. I'm just having a hard time convincing my Muse that, after a month and a half, the idea is _not_ "Stale". But that's like trying to convince a vegan that steak is _not_ "murder". -_-'

**Ranchdressing:** _Of course_ Desmond knows how to make Shaun behave! He got years of practice wooing the ladies from Ezio, and a nearly homicidal urge to dominate from Altair. XD

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Yeah, "Til We Die" made me cry while writing it, to tell the truth... But a little bit of angst just keeps you from overdosing on fluff.

* * *

"Desmond?"

"Yeah, Shaun?" Desmond didn't bother looking up from the computer.

"Are my hands cold?"

Desmond bolted from the chair with a screech. Shaun looked at him with something akin to amusement in his rust-brown eyes and he started rubbing his hands together while Desmond rubbed the back of his neck.

"Was that necessary?" Desmond demanded.

"Well I found it entertaining, if that's any consolation." Shaun shrugged.

"It's not. Why are your hands always cold?"

"Poor circulation, I suppose."

Desmond shook his head and muttered under his breath and sat back down in his chair.

"What _are_ you doing with my computer?" Shaun asked.

Desmond shrugged, said, "Escape game", and continued clicking around the screen with little rhyme or rason. He was clearly just trying to get lucky and find something that he could use.

"Is this _Morning Star_?" Shaun asked, eyes scanning the screan. Desmond nodded.

"Go back to the cryo-tube with the dead engineer. You have to get the spare wires and the rubber tubing from the cryo-chamber back there. And get a sample of the hybernation fluid while you're at it. Use the cup from the medbay to collect." Shaun murmured.

"You played this before?" Desmond asked, glancing over his shoulder at the Brit.

"Once or twice. I beat it in seven minutes the last time I played. Pour the beer down the drain in the engineer's cryo-tube. Now you've got it."

"Seven minutes? That's not bad. What the hell do I do with the gas mask?"

"I _am_ the designated brains of this outfit. Did you get the insulation from the med bay?"

"Are you calling me stupid?" Desmond asked with a narched eyebrow.

"Maybe. The insulation was in the compartment next to the first aid cabinet. You have the pipe, did you get the insulation?"

"I don't think I did... There's the little bastard. Now what do I do with the insulation?"

"First you ahve to take the rubber hose from the cryo-tube and attach it to the mask. Good. Now add the insulation and replace the carbon filter right there. Good job. Back to the cockpit and then turn the ventilation back on."

"What did you mean by poor circluatoin?" Desmond asked as he turned away from the game.

"What?" Shaun had to backpedal for a few moments before it clicked, "Oh. You mean my hands. The bloodflow to my hands isn't as good as it should be. That's why they're always cold." Shaun shrugged.

"And there's no way to improve the circulation?" Desmond asked.

"What are you suggesting, Miles?" Shaun asked warily.

"Well, I'm saying we could aways head back to the bedroom while the girls are grocery shopping(1) and see how well we could get your blood flowing." Desmond winked. It was a bad habit he'd picked up from Ezio, but one he didn't mind having.

Shaun didn't say anything for a few long minutes, but he soon wrapped a cold hand around Desmond's warm wrist and pulled him from the main room and into the bedroom. After nearly half an hour of panting, screaming and moaning, they lay on the small bed trying to cath their breath. Desmond was resting his head on Shaun's chest, staring idly at the ceiling.

"Hey, Desmond." Shaun murmured.

"Yeah?"

"Are my hands still cold?"

"_Fucking A! _There is seriously no hope for you." Desmond muttered as he idly rubbed his chest where Shaun had placed his frigid hands.

"Were they warmer this time than at the computer?" Shaun asked.

"A little. Why?"

"I nominate we go for a second round and see how cold my hands are after that." Shaun suggested with a sly grin. Desmond didn't waste time thinking about his answer. Of course it would be a yes. And maybe this time, Shaun would be too fucking tired to ask how cold his hands were.

* * *

**(1):** This was _not_ me trying to be sexist with "the women shopping". I have learned the hard way, that is, through personal experience, that it's a bad idea to send two guys shopping on their own. I sent my dad and my brother out with a list of things a few weeks ago, and they came back with almost 100$ worth of pizza rolls, potato chips, cheese puffs, Mountain Dew and frozen White Castle burgers. And they didn't pick up half the things on the list. But if you decide to make a sexist comment anyways, be my guest. Just know that I can't be held accountable for my response. ;)


	6. Envy

**A/N:** This is a route that it seems every writer wants to try out. So why the hell not? The Seven Deadly Sins, just for shits and giggles. Keep in mind that this will _not _be a collection of drabbles. These are going to be full-length and in-depth looks at how the various characters react to/deal with the sins. :)

**Miss Ziya:** I thought it sounded like something Shaun would go for. I know _I_ have cold hands after sitting at a computer all day, lol.

**Sazuka-Chan:** Don't feel bad about your dad forgetting. I got my braces on and two weeks later, my dad walked up and handed me my favorite candybar: Butterfinger. Great. The one candybar listed by name on the 'DON'T EAT ON PAIN OF DEATH' list, and he hands it to me. -_-'

**Ranchdressing:** Truth be told, I totally skipped out on detaling the Seme/Uke relationship between the two because I find both sides of that _extremely_ hot. And I didn't really feel like trying to decide which one I wanted to see that time, so it was pretty much me sitting at my computer like this: "Son of a bitch... Goddamit... We could flip a coin? Heads for DeShaun, tails for ShaunDes? But my lucky quarter is up two flights of stairs in my bedroom. Fuck it. Let's go vague. I don't wanna deal with this." XD

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Those kids are going to be getting into a lot of trouble as the sin collection progresses... ;)

* * *

Malik always considered himself to be "above" normal emotional responses to the mundane. He felt that his emotional distance would be his salvation in the end. His life was the death of others and he could afford no attachments. "Nothing is true". It was one of their basic tenants. If nothing was true, then there was no "love", there was no "fear". There was only their mission; only what they had to do to protect the other members of humanity. "Everything is permitted"'; a double-edged sword that they danced with incessantly. It validated their cause and their missions and their methods. It somehow validated the strange envy he felt when Altair would spend a day with Kaddar, covering the boring and mundane points of something the younger should have understood.

The first time he ever experienced the odd stabs of envy, he had been watching Altair and Kaddar on the practice range. Kaddar swore his accuracy with a throwing knife was well-below par, and he was right, but only when Altair was around. So he had the elder tutor him in how to properly throw a knife. Malik watched them from a distance, sitting in a tree with a book balanced on his knees. The sun was beginning to set and it was getting harder to see the targets in the lengthening shadows, but he noted that it wasn't affecting Altair's accuracies at all. Kadar might as well have been throwing blindfolded.

"_Min falidak_(1), Altair." Kadar murmured as his knife yet again went wide of the target.

"You have to keep focused. If you were to do that in a real situation, you would be more than worse off." Altair said patiently, though it was clear that his patience was beginning to wear thin.

Kadar jogged down the field to retrieve the knife and Altair watched him run. Malik felt a warm bubble of envy burst over him, bathing him in an acidic wave of jealousy. Altair didn't bat an eye in his direction unless it was to insult, and even those moments were becoming rarer. It seemed that Kaddar was going to eat up all of Altair's time. Intentional or not, it had been quite a long time since Malik had seen Altair without the younger man following him around with those big chocolate-brown eyes. But Malik wasn't going to say a word of it to Kaddar.

"Try again. Hold the knife like I told you. Good. Pull it back. Focus. Just, breathe slowly focus and-- No. Go get it and try again." Altair said, grinding his teeth together. Kaddar blushed and ran after the discarded blade.

Kaddar repositioned himself in front of the target and next to Altair. He took a deep breath and moved to throw the knife when he was stopped. Altair had moved behind him and wrapped his calloused hands around Kaddar's slim wrists. His chest pressed against Kaddar's back and it was like the desert herself had wound around the younger. His breathing halted for a moment before becoming a ragged staccato.

"Breathe, Kaddar." Altair growled. Kaddar forced his lungs to slow and work properly. Altair's arms moved Kaddar's and the knife flew smoothly and seamlessly into the painted portion of the target.

"There. Now just do that every time." Altair released Kaddar and was walking away from the practice range before the heat faded from the younger Al-Sayf's face. From his vantage point in the tree, Malik seethed silently. He closed the book on his knees with a nearly-silent snap. He dropped from the branches and stalked off to his room with a scowl, the book almost forgotten under his arm. He threw it on to the small bed with a snarl and started silently pacing the room, his feet lightly scuffing the stone and sand floor, his robes whispering around him as he turned.

He muttered a string of Arabic curses littered with English and smatters of French he'd picked up from the various Crusaders he'd stalked. He didn't curse his brother, or Altair. He instead cursed the way he'd envied Kaddar for having Altair's arms wrapped around him like that. He cursed the way he wanted Altair to hold him. It was ridiculous. Altair was cocky and annoying and overbearing and for some reason it turned Malik on.

"You seem upset."

The voice didn't startle Malik, but the voice's owner hadn't expected it to. Altair was leaning against one of the dark bookshelves Malik kept for his extensive collection of scrolls and books and whatever else caught his eye. Despite his robes being a stark white, Altair blended with the shadows rather well. But Malik could always tell when he was nearby.

"Leave me, Altair." Malik didn't stop pacing.

"I stopped by to speak with you." Altair shrugged.

"Is there nothing else for Kaddar to be taught?" Malik demanded venemously.

"Are you angry with your brother, or with me?"

Malik paused in his pacing and fixed Altair with a dark glare. He could see Altair's amber eyes cutting through the darkness and watching him move. It was almost unnerving.

"It has been a long day, Altair. I'd appreciate time to sleep."

"You don't look ready to sleep. You look like you'd rather kill me where I stand." Altair smirked and stepped out of the shadow, the dim sunlight catching in his eyes and making them seem to glow. Malik bit his tongue and turned away from Altair.

"You speak English better than I do, but I have a feeling I know what you were saying." Altair murmured, stepping closer to Malik. The Al-Sayf could hear the whispering robes as Ibn La-Ahad stepped closer. Malik stiffened when he felt hot arms wrap around his waist, but he soon leaned into the touch.

"I believe you said you were jealous of Kaddar." Altair murmured, his lips brushing Malik's ear.

"Perhaps."

"And you said that you hated yourself for it."

"Maybe."

"And you also said that you loved me." Altair purred, nuzzling the side of Malik's neck.

"I don't believe I said that."

"I'm sure I can have you screaming it before the night is over."

Malik growled and turned so he could look at Altair's face.

"Don't think that I have forgiven you for spending all of your time with my younger brother."

"So the jealousy _is_ real." Altair seemed smug and pleased with himself through that revelation.

"It doesn't matter."

"Can you forgive me?"

"No. Not at this moment." Malik shrugged.

Altair's lightly chapped lips brushed Malik's neck, his stubble scraping over the skin. Malik, not of his own volition, tilted his head to the side so Altair's lips had more to work with. Altair's arms tightened around the shorter man's waist, pulling him closer.

"What will it take for you to forgive me?" Altair asked, his voice little more than a husky whisper.

"I'm not sure. I suppose you will have to try everything you can think of until something works." Malik smirked.

* * *

**A/N2:** I keep saying this, but I'm not happy with this. Envy is such a mercurial sentiment... It's hard to get ahold of and cling to... 1200 words isn't that bad for a topic that usually doesn't get more than 200-300 words, right? Ugh. Review, tell me your honest opinion. Ask me what the hell I was thinking. Seriously. I'll respond. :D


	7. GLUTTONY

**A/N:** We're going back to some Desomond/Shaun for this segment. Spawned from a concept I worked into my full-length fic. Shaun has an obsession with peppermint and Desmond is curious... ;) **_A LITTLE WARNING IN ADVANCE!!!_** This one is more a tip-of-the-hat to gluttony than something all out, just because it's difficult to work with gluttony, given the characters and their personalities. All of them are trained to do everything in moderation but... Dammit, I'm rambing. -_-' Enjoy and review.

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** I tried to write that one, and it seemed to fit the character dynamic, given their interations in Solomon's Temple. (Altair being stupid, Kaddar being all over it with praise and Malik being the bitter opposite.) I'm glad you liked it.

**Ranchdressing:** Well... I was kind of thinking that the best group to do jealousy with would be the Al-Sayfs and Altair, just because it's something that's believable. The first time I played the game and Altair killed the old man in the temple and Malik yelled, but Kaddar went all "I worship the ground you walk on", the first thing I did was laugh and yell "MAN CRUSH!!!" while pointing at the screen. :3

**Miss Ziya:** I think Altair's arrogant prickishness is awesome! He reminds me of myself sometimes... XD It almost makes you wonder if he was training Kadar just to piss Malik off so they could have angry make-up sex later. XD

**just a rambling romantic:** Well everyone has to have a way to blow off some steam. And it _was_ a party...

**M.33 Atris:** I have no doubt that Altair would just fly off the handle. Malik is a little better at keeping his emotions in check; he's the calmer of the two. But I felt that if I wrote it as Altair being jealous, it would look more like WRATH than ENVY and I don't want to ruin WRATH later...

**marionette kadaj:** Wow. Thanks for the awesome review. I'm really, really glad you liked ENVY so much. :3

* * *

Desmond was making coffee for himself when he first encountered it. He was reaching for the dark roasted coffee in the back of the cabinet when the little red and yellow box tumbled down and came to rest on the counter. _"Celestial Seasonings Peppermint Tea"._ Desmond looked at the box for a moment before he shrugged his shoulders and started the coffee machine.

"Desmond." Shaun said curtly. Desmond nodded in his direction and watched Shaun pluck a teabag from the box and start heating a cup of water. He stretched to put the tea back in the cabinet above the stove and Desmond watched the Brit's shirt inch up with an appreciative smile. The bubbling sound of hot water steaming through the filter snapped Desmond from his less-than-pure thoughts.

Desmond poured the coffee into a mug, sprinkled a little sugar in and walked out of the room, leaving Shaun to worry over his boiling water. Subject Seventeen perched on the edge of the Animus 2.0, just because it was familiar and because it was really the only place to sit. Lucy was working on some program, Rebecca was trying to increase the processing speed of the Animus, and he knew better than to sit in Shaun's seat, if he wanted to try avoiding conflict.

"Alright, Des. You ready to go back in?" Rebecca asked, peering over the edge of the computer screen. Desmond shrugged and put the coffee cup to the side before he reclined into the plush red chair. He was glad that this one was upholstered; he could lay there longer and wake up with his ass _not_ asleep. The horrific torture device at Abstergo always left his entire back tingling and more often than not left him with a crick in his neck that wouldn't quit.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been under when they pulled him from the system, but he knew that it had been at least a few hours, judging by how hungry he was feeling and how his legs were beginning to fall asleep... He also knew that Rebecca wasn't the one pulling him out of those long-lost memories. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at Shaun. There was a candy cane hanging between his lips that seemed a little more red than normal... Desmond shook off his thoughts and asked where Rebecca was.

"It's her turn to pick up food." Shaun mumbled around the "seasonal" treat. Desmond just nodded and had an urge to lick the red food coloring off the archivists lips. He reached for his coffee and brought it to his lips with a silent sigh, thoroughly expecting it to be painfully cold, but he found himself pleasantly surprised when it was hot.

"Figured you'd bitch less if the coffee was hot." Shaun shrugged. Desmond thanked him and sipped at the drink. He saw Shaun reach for a cup full of pale brown liquid and recognized it as the peppermint tea.

"Does that really taste like peppermint?" Desmond asked.

"Not as sweet as a peppermint stick, but yes." Shaun murmured, turning his attention to his computer. He muttered something about a corrupted timeline and needing to cross-reference some recorded memories from Ezio to fix the glitches. Desmond rolled his eyes. Shaun was always working on something.

Without another word, Desmond strolled into the living room and flopped gracelessly onto the couch, planning on closing his eyes for a few minutes. By the time he realized he was falling asleep, he was already dreaming of the Syrian sun and a baked mud roof and a lover whose name meant "Summer"(1).

He could smell Shaun before he could see him, as creepy as that sounded. It wasn't his fault Altair picked up on the alien smell of peppermint and wanted to wake up to investigate... Desmond opened his eyes and stared up at the historian, thoroughly unsurprised to see a pepeprmint stick in his mouth. It was darker outside now than it was before and he could smell Chinese food wafting through the door.

"What's your new obsession with mint?" Desmond asked as he sat up, straightening his hoodie and running a hand through his hair.

"It's not a new obsession, or even an obsession at all. The only candy I like happens to be peppermint and this town handmakes all the peppermint it sells." Shaun sniffed.

Desmond shrugged and shuffled out of the room, gratefully accepting the Lo Mein Rebecca handed him. He sat at the table and picked at the noddles until he woke up enough to fully appreciate how hungry he'd become over the course of his session within the Animus. He cracked his neck and earned a stern lecture from Lucy about how disgusting a habit it is. He rolled his eyes and continued eating, though faster this time, desperate to get away from the blonde's sharp glare and sharper words. He threw the empty box out and wandered into the Animus Room, a little curious as to what Shaun was doing.

The Brit was, as expected, typing away at his computer. Desmond looked over his shoulder and tried to understand the script scrolling across the page, tried to understand how Shaun could comprehend the meaningless symbols. Miles glanced at Shaun and stared for a moment. Shaun's glasses were awash with the garish reflection of the letters and numbers flying over the monitor, obscuring his rust-colored eyes, _another _peppermint stick hanging from his lips, almost forgotten, but not quite, his face somewhere between slack with boredom and peacefully relaxed.

"Done staring, Miles?" Shaun asked, eyes still on the screen.

"Just thinking." Desmond covered easily.

"What about?"

"What makes those peppermint sticks so special." Desmond continued to lie.

"Hm." Shaun didn't seem convinced. Desmond didn't rightly care. He continued to stare.

"Got anymore left?" Desmond aske suddenly. Shaun stopped typing, though symbols continued to appear on the screen from time to time. He pressed a few more keys and minimized the screen before he turned to Desmond.

"Peppermint sticks?" Shaun asked, a little confused at the sudden topic change.

"Yeah. Do you have any of them left? You _did_ say they were the best."

Shaun plucked the peppermint stick from his mouth and tapped the spit-slicked end against his lips, seeming to think.

"Not for you." Shaun shrugged. He replaced the candy and turned back to his computer. A black and glowing blue flash overlaid the current reality before fading as quickly as it came and Desmond was overwhelmed with primal urges he didn't have the will to stop. He grabbed the arm of Shaun's plush chair and spun it so the historian was facing him. Shaun sputtered and started to curse, but Desmond crushed their lips together, taking the protruding end of the peppermint stick into his mouth and biting it off. The soft, sugary treat snapped and he retreated, suddenly anxious at gaguing the archivist's reaction. As Miles pulverized the soft, flavored sugar between his teeth, Shaun seemed to be coming to his senses again. He glared at Desmond and launched himself out of the chair, reattaching their lips and ravaging Desmond's mouth, even as the two of them fell towards the floor. Desmond took the majority of the shock from impact with a grunt, though he didn't let that stop him.

Kissing Shaun was nothing like kissing anyone else, Desmond noted. And it had nothing to do with something as foolish as a kissing style or anything like that. Shaun wanted to be in control. Desmond didn't want to give him control. It was more like a small war than a kiss; both men were desperate to keep the other from gaining the upperhand. All of Desmond's instincts screamed that he needed to get from under Shaun, told him that he was too vulnerable in this position that-- Desmond's mind blanked and a moan escaped him. Shaun's fingers were tangled almost painfully in his hair, and his tongue had taken the battle to Desmond's mouth instead of the neutral ground between. The brazen and unquestioning display of dominance was, oddly enough, a turn on for Desmond. But the moment he had his wits back about him, he bucked his hips and threw Shaun to the floor so he was the one on top. He kissed Shaun again, this time pushing the fight to the Brit's mouth. Everywhere his tongue touched tasted undeniably of peppermint, sweet and cool and tingling.

"So tell me," Desmond murmured, nuzzling Shaun's neck before he nipped at it, "How much of that peppermint have you eaten today?"

"Enough to send me into a diabetic coma." Shaun gasped.

"Is that such a smart thing to do?" Desmond asked with a lazily cocked eyebrow.

"You seem to be enjoying it."

Desmond chuckled and kissed the archivist again, this time giving in to that urge and licking the sticky-sweet food coloring from Shaun's lips. He was beginning to think that peppermint was his favorite candy too...

* * *

(1): My research could be off (wouldn't be the first time), but I've come to the conclusion that Malik Al-Sayf loosely translates to "Keeper of the Summer" or something of the like. I've found a few different variations of the possible meaning of that, some say it's closer to "Holder of the Sword", just because Arabic is a tricksy language. I personally prefer "Keeper of Summer".


	8. GREED

**A/N:** I went with Ezio/Leonardo for GREED because Ezio is the only one from the series that _might_ be greedy... Enjoy. :D

**Nadilee:** Dammit... That'll teach me to trust the internet. -_-' lol Yay peppermint!!

**Sazuka-chan:** Lol. Yes, "Keeper of Summer" does sound better, and when I wrote that story, I had a 5 ounce candy cane sitting on the coffee table next to my computer. Candy canes no longer offer the appropriate fix. XD

**AC2ezio:** Awh. Thank you. /blush. -hands internet candycane-

**Ranchdressing:** I'm very happy. It's my dream to make people blush at mundane objects and fight noseblees for reasons others wouldn't understand. :D

**The Twilight Lurker:** Now that you mention it, I _haven't_ heard the songs from the Alice In Wonderland soundtrack... But now that you mention it, I'm a little intrigued... But I'm really glad you like the stories. :D

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** I'm glad you like the new style. :3

**Kherin:** Awh, yeah. Chapter three made me cry IRL too. Don't feel bad, lol.

**Hunter.48:** Yeahhhh, I tend to post these little things on both sites, just for my adoring fans. It's kinda surprising how wide-spread the yaoi fans for this fandom are. o.o And yes, anything involving Shaun makes me happy. :D Except the one I read where they killed him. That made me sad. o.0

* * *

The problem with spending a vast majority of your life believing you're the son of a banker is that money becomes a central point to your life; it becomes a habit that you can't really break.

The sun had long since set and Ezio remained behind his desk in his upper-room study, pouring over finance books and calculating revenues Monteriggioni was generating as a vacation spot for the wealthy and the aristocratic. He decided it was time to buy a few more paintings to decorate the villa with... He heard Botticelli was working on a few nice pieces...

"Still awake and working at this hour, Ezio?" Leonardo asked.

The Assassin didn't bother looking up. He had to figure out which direction he was going to expand the art gallery to keep it from interfering with the businesses along that street...

"_Si._ There's much to be done. You should sleep." Ezio murmured as he turned the page.

"Leave it to be done tomorrow. I would sleep, but the bed feels far too large and cold and empty without you there." Leonardo shrugged.

Ezio sighed. The bed was moderately sized and was just barely big enough for the two of them. There was no chance the bed could feel that large to Leonardo.

"I'll be to bed soon, _amore_. Just get some sleep." Ezio waved Leonardo away and the artist departed down the narrow ladder with a heavy sigh.

It was something Leonardo hated about his lover. Ezio was constantly obsessing over their finances, trying to see where every florin went, trying to see where the next _hundred_ florins would come from... Leonardo hated it. Ezio had nothing to worry over. His sister kept track of every coin that passed through hands in Monteriggioni, his archetect kept the buildings looking nice, his uncle's men kept the peace... Accounting was an unhealthy obsession Ezio had, one that he wouldn't let up.

Ezio rubbed his eyes and opened another book. It seemed that the people were responding well to the addition of the brothel, especially lonely diplomats... The thieves guild was also proving useful with them gathering information for him... He lifted the quill again and snarled wordlessly as the candle he was using to see by went out, the flame extinguished by its own pool of melted wax. He snatched the candle from the heavy brass candlestick and replaced it with another. He lit the wick with the flame from another, half-extinguished candle burning on one corner of the desk. When the desk was again bathed with the warm, flickering light, Ezio continued to try and run calculations on the income of the Villa. When he looked out the window, he cursed at himself silently. The sky was beginning to grow light. He'd worked the night away and neglected Leonardo. He had a feeling he'd be forgiven; Leonardo knew how hectic his life had become of late.

He climbed down the ladder and pulled the hatch closed behind him. He shuffled tiredly down the hall, unclasping his cape and unbuckling his sword belt as he walked. Across the mansion was an actual bedroom Ezio used, one that was inhabited by the sleeping Leonardo.

With surprising care, Ezio draped his various weapons and armor over a chair before he removed the rest of his clothing and laid beside Leonardo.

"Only gone until sunrise this time." Leonardo muttered bitterly.

"It is not easy running a city." Ezio reminded him gently.

Leonardo rolled over and buried his face in the Assassin's tanned and scarred chest. Ezio wrapped his arms around Leonardo's fragile frame and held him close.

"Let's take a vacation. We can go to that town in the mountains and spend some time away from the ledgers and the accounting books... It could be nice." Leonardo suggested sleepily.

"I'll consider it."

Leonardo mumbled something, but he fell asleep completely before Ezio could demand to know what it was he said...

Da Vinci was not surprised to awake in the late morning to find the bed empty save himself. It wasn't uncommon for Ezio to be awake before sunrise, no matter how exhausted he was from the activities from the day (or night) previous... The first place Leonardo checked was the training ground where the _mercenario_ were known to train. They hadn't seen Ezio in at least an hour... Leonardo scoured the rest of the town before he reluctantly made his way to the place where he knew Ezio to be all along: that damnable study, pouring over currency. Leonardo discovered exactly what he was expecting to find. He wished he could claim Ezio had disappointed him, just that once.

"Have you considered that vacation I suggested?" Leonardo asked casually. He walked to one of the large windows and looked over the winding streets of Monteriggioni below.

"I haven't had time to do much of anything, Leonardo. _Mi dispace_. I have work to do." Ezio sighed.

Leonardo closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the rough walls surrounding the portal.

"There are others who could do the work for you." Leonardo offered. It was a conversation they'd had many times. It always ended the same way. Ezio would accuse him of not understanding and he would go right back to his numbers.

"Leonardo, it is something my father taught me from the time I was a child; If something needs be done, the only guarantee that it will be done in a timely and satisfactory manner is to do it yourself." Ezio continued scratching at the paper in front of him.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning, Ezio."

The scratching stopped.

"What for?" There was a hint of hurt, anger, and denial in the Assassin's voice. He almost seemed to be whining.

"There is a painting that I must deliver. You're welcome to accompany me..." Leonardo let the offer hang in the air. Ezio sighed and brushed the feathered end of the quill under his chin as he thought.

"How long would a trip like this last?"

Leonardo turned from the window with a shrug before he said, "Perhaps a week... Maybe longer if we're... _distracted_." Leonardo smiled.

Ezio continued to stare at nothing while he thought and Leonardo let any hope he may have had die.

"Easter is during that week we will be gone. There are bound to be plenty of people looking for a place to go and relax..." Ezio glanced down at his book.

"Fine. I suppose I'll see you in a week then." Leonardo nodded stiffly. He exited the room and Ezio was left scratching away at his books. The Assassin knew that his obsession with money and finances was beginning to wear away at his relationship with Leonardo, but he didn't interfere with the artist's paintings...

Leonardo's carriage left early the next morning, before even Ezio was awake. It didn't surprise Leonardo that his lover slept so soundly. The sky was a sickly pre-dawn gray when Ezio crawled into bed seeking some sort of solace or forgiveness that Leonardo had reluctantly given. He left a note on his pillow for his lover to find when he finally awoke in the morning. He would be long gone by the time Ezio finally woke up...

_"Ezio, my love, I told you yesterday while you were working that I would be leaving to deliver one of my paintings. That is only a half truth, and I apologize. I am looking into purchasing another property to use as a workshop in Roma. I love you endlessly, and I hope you know that. You are welcome to join me at any time, if only to leave behind your love of numbers and figures and florins. I will be returning to Monteriggioni within a month or so, though I cannot guarantee how long I will remain. All of my love, Leonardo."_

Ezio crumpled the parchment up and threw it across the room in a fit of silent rage. How stupid he was, thinking Leonardo would just understand why he did what he did. Leonardo had paintings and that was good enough for him. He spent what money he had on hand, and he kept all of it on hand, not bothering with balancing his books or keeping track of money left in a bank... Leonardo didn't understand what it was to have responsibilities like he did. The Assassin quickly dressed himself and mounted a sleek black horse. He needed to catch up to Leo, something that he could easily accomplish given the renowned speed of his steed and Leonardo's disadvantage of being weighted down with a carriage.

"Have you reconsidered my offer?" Leonardo asked, stroking the neck of Ezio's mare. They were standing on the side of the road, Leonardo petting the horse and Ezio just watching him. Leonardo was careful to keep his tone neutral and his emotions in check.

"When I left this morning, it was with the full intent of explaining to you why I pour over the books the way I do... And then I realized it would be pointless to attempt to do so. I understand nothing of linear perspectives, just as you understand nothing of finances. It is not in our nature to understand the hobbies of the other."

Leonardo's hand faltered in petting the horse, but he soon resumed the mindless activity in the hopes that Ezio would overlook the pause. He should have known better. Ezio took the artist's delicate hands in his own rough ones and stared into those pale blue eyes.

"But we have worked through misunderstandings before, _si_?" Ezio grinned. It was the smile that always did Leonardo in; before it was because the smile was so freely given and so carefree, and now it was because the smile was such a rareity.

"_Si._" Leonardo agreed.

"I cannot promise that you will not find me in the study in the middle of the night pouring over the books, but I will promise you that it will be less frequent. I hate to see money lost, but I would hate to see you lost even more. What do you say we drop your painting off, leave before the formalities are over and spend a week away? Or longer, if we get... _destratcted_." Ezio winked. Leonardo blushed. They both decided this was a better alternative to sitting in a darkened room looking for lost florins.


	9. LUST

**A/N:** Okay. This one is dark, and angry, and a not-quite noncon thing going on... Not really "rape", but Altair gets a little ahead of himself towards the middle/end of the chapter... But what do you expect? He's a horny, lusty badass. Shit happens.

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Updated as soon as I could. I keep getting stuck with work on the weekends... -_-'

**Alice the Walker:** Don't worry. You make perfect sense to me in your review about the meaning of Malik's name. :D And yeah, Ezio does deserve to be bitch-slapped. I mean, I love him to death, but not as much as I love Altair. Mmm... Altair... ANYWAY!! Yeah. I wasn't a fan of how that one turned out, but Ezio is the only character that had any sort of material possession and could be considered greedy with anything. :/

**Huner.48:** Yes. I've read a few stories where Shaun ends up dead. I didn't even enjoy the one where _I_ killed him. XD And yes, their relationship is a bit rocky sometimes. But that's just normal I suppose...

**Ranchdressing:** Leonardo is the best distraction. ;D And greed was really hard to write for this fandom, just because all of the characters are pretty much broke but Ezio.

**Anonymous:** It wouldn't _whose_ idea it was. Leonardo is just the type of person to blush at anything because he's sweet and innocent like that. And then Ezio turns him. Silly manwhore Ezio. XD

**:** Lol. I was waiting for someone to do that... And I'm glad you liked it.

**TheScryer:** Ohhhhhh dip!! Nice to see I'm messing with minds away from the computer now. XD

**Beelze:** Wow. Thanks so much. I have had more people yell at me for new obsessions with peppermint... Lol. But I'm really glad I've made an impact.

* * *

After seventeen years, most habits are so ingrained, they're impossible to break. That was the case with Altair. He'd spent almost his entire life living among the Brotherhood of Assassins, so much time, that he had learned that the only ones that could be trusted were his brothers and his instincts, and you always trusted the latter before anything else, even the former.

His intense connection with his instincts and his dark, tumultuous primal side was obvious in everything he did; it showed in the way he stalked around, like a cat that was silently slinking after its prey, even when there was no need for him to be any kind of secretive. It showed in the way his cool amber eyes would measure and size up even the most pathetic beggar, checking them for any sign of a threat. It showed in the way he kept his shoulders squared and his head defiantly high, even when speaking to the Grand Master. But Malik didn't mind. There was something about Altair's primal show of dominance around even his natural surroundings that appealed to the primative side of Malik himself.

Altair stalked back and forth, his feet making no noise, his robes silenced despite the open window. They were acting as messengers, delivering a message of the utmost importance to an outpost on the farthest edge of the Syrian border. They had delivered the message and were now waiting for a reply. The room they were given was massive, courtesey of their Brother's front as a wealthy spice merchant and the accompanying mansion that came with it. They had spent three nights in it. Altair was getting resltess. Malik had no room to complain. He just continued to watch Altair's hips sway back and forth, continued to watch the way those slightly hunched shoulders rose and fell with every breath...

"You seem tense." Malik mused from a dark corner. He was leaning against the wall, watching Altair, studying the way he moved so predatory.

Altair stopped his pacing and turned to face Malik. There was a dark gleam in the amber eyes that peered out from the depths of the white hood.

"I cannot take this waiting any longer. How much time must we waste while he dawdles behind a desk, contemplating how he might possibly answer?" Altair demanded.

Malik was only half-listening to the words. He was much more interested in how they formed on sun-kissed and wind-whipped lips and the molten glower in Altair's ochre eyes. He was glad Altair's question was rhetorical, because he doubted he'd be able to come up with a suitably coherent answer. Altair caught the lingering gaze and advanced slowly, stalking forward with impeccably calculated movements. He put one arm on either side of Malik and slowly pressed a kiss to wind-chapped lips, testing the waters, so to speak. They watched each other for a few seconds before Malik allowed his eyes to slip closed. Altair accepted it as a gesture of trust and closed his own eyes. He kissed Malik's jaw and slowly inched his way to the side of Al-Sayf's neck. Malik's eyes shot open and he warily eyed the back of Altair's hood as he felt hot lips caress the skin just over his pulse point. He felt Altair's tongue slide across the sensitive skin and the ultimately important vein that lay just below the skin. Malik shuddered and closed his eyes again. He would allow this, but only for Altair, and only now. The primative side that controlled so much of Altair sensed this submission and he bit at the skin over the forbidden vein with less hesitance.

The motions were careful and slow as Altair let his hands trail down to Malik's hips, coming to rest on the buckle that held the sword belt to the shorter man. Altair gently unfastened the buckle and let the sword fall away. Malik stiffened at the lack of protection and Altair guided smaller hands to his own sword belt and allowed Malik to remove the weapon. Altair soon moved his hands up and removed the belt holding Malik's throwing knives before he was similarly unarmed. They moved cautiously, each of them sizing the other up. It was already clear that Altair was in control, but it wasn't flaunted. All it would take was one miscalculated motion, and Malik would go from a submissive man to a threatened animal. Sashes the color of fresh blood were dropped, hoods were pushed back and robes were pushed away. Malik found himself pulled from the wall and pushed onto a large bed. His black eyes were focused on Altair, who continued to kiss his collarbones and throat.

Altair fought against a dark and unnamable urge that pushed him to just hurry the fuck up and _take_ Malik. It was that primative, pressing, instinctive _need_... His kisses became more rough and rushed and his hand curled around Malik's erect penis. Al-Sayf moaned and arched his back away from the soft sheets. His hips bucked without his consent and he couldn't stop the pathetic noises that were forcing their way between his lips. He jerked his hips to the side and pinned Altair below him. He trailed his lips and tongue down Altair's body before he took La-Ahad's length into his mouth, forcing a strangled gasp from Altair. Al-Mualim's favorite looked down at the dark bobbing head between his legs with half-closed golden eyes. He grabbed Malik's hair and pulled the smaller man up and kissed him roughly, turning them back over and pinning the superior swordsman under him. The dark voice was suddenly much, much more than just a whisper, and Altair gave into those delicious sounding demands and forced himself into Malik. Malik choked on the pain and he was momentarily incapacitated by the harsh and violent movements of Altair's hips. He was unprepared for this, completely unprepared.

Then it happened. There was a single moment when his vision went white around the edges, and it wasn't from pain. He wasn't sure what Altair did, but it was the most beautiful sensation he'd ever experienced. His wilting erection was suddenly back and he was again bucking against his will. He clung to Altair and moved his hips to match the movements of his partner, all the while gasping for air and not caring that it was feeling like he wasn't getting enough oxygen; he had better things to worry about.

"F-Fuck... Altair..." Malik gasped.

Altair purred something that was almost lost on Malik, but he figured it was something along the lines of a confirmation of understanding. Altair quickened his movements and Malik was reduced to only the primal enjoyment of submitting like he was. There it was. He arched away from the bed as he came, screaming Altair's name with air he didn't remember taking in. It was almost a minute later when Altair finished and removed himself from Malik.

Cool air sweeping across the desert sands outside found its way inside and swept across sweaty bodies, forcing almost unnoticeable shudders out of them. Malik stared at a particular bead of sweat that lay on Altair's chest, one that seemed silver in the moonlight; A pearl of silver on gold-colored skin. He raised his left hand and ran it down Altair's chest, stopping only when a hand mangled in the same way as his own grabbed his wrist. A kiss was pressed to his palm and he knew that Altair's inner animal had been satisfied and that he was now somehow property of Altair Ibn La-Ahad. Malik decided he didn't care.

* * *

**A/N2:** So, not really the best one I've ever written... But I have to work in the morning and I should have been in bed an hour ago because of that. XD I hope it wasn't _too_ painful. Reviewers will be showered with awesome internet love. ;D


	10. PRIDE

**A/N:** This one... It isn't my best or my longest... It was difficult for me to write this one for some reason... Dunno why... Inspired somehow by "The Nobodies" by Marilyn Manson.

**Alice the Walker:** I really tried to work a good bit of realism into the situation, just because if it's not realistic, it's crap. :D

**Hunter.48:** Hehe. I agree.

**Sazuka-chan:** I like to think they were able to keep quiet enough to keep everything a secret. :3

**Ranchdressing:** Lol. I'm still trying to get used to writing smut. I think it'll be a little while before I really get comfortable with it.

**:** Hehe. Well, I decided to include a non-con warning in the beginning, just because you know there's going to be someone out there who takes it that way, and it's better to have all of my bases covered, ne?

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Yay indeed. :D

* * *

It was a moment that haunted him every night of his life, the single moment that changed everything, the instant that irreparably damaged his entire relationship with the only person he ever loved.

Altair closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the rough bark of the scruffy tree he was standing under. It didn't matter what he did or what Malik said; he would forever feel guilty about what happened. Kaddar was dead. Malik was maimed for life. Because of him. Because of his pride.

His dreams were filled with screams he wasn't sure he ever really heard within Solomon's Temple. There was Malik's cry of pain, then a choked cry from Kaddar, then an angry roar... It always ended the same way. Altair would awake in a cold sweat, panting with wild eyes darting around the room, searching for the source of the screaming. It always ended the same way. Altair would sneak out of his own room and into Malik's by the balcony, sneaking into the room with all the silent grace of a shadow in the deepest night. He would watch Malik breathe silently for a few moments, remind himself that Malik was alive and had forgiven him. It always ended the same way. He would crawl back to his own room and lay in his bed, tangled in the sheets and trying to forget that it had ever happened.

A single moment of pride had ruined two lives and ended one. _'No. Worse than that.'_ Altair mentally corrected himself. If he had decided to listen to Malik, then the Apple would have been left in Solomon's Temple. Al-Mualim would not have gotten it and would not have sent so many of his brothers to their deaths. Kaddar would be asleep down the hall. Malik would have both of his arms. Altair mentioned this to Malik one night after too much wine.

"But if you had not done what was done, then the Apple would have fallen to the Templars and our position could have been a thousand times worse. We do not know how things could have gone, only how they _did_ go, and we must be thankful they went as they did and not worse." Malik said.

There was a slightly haughty air in that statement, as if it were something Malik had thought of many times before and felt was common knowledge by this point. Altair didn't see it that way. He saw himself as the man who killed his lover's brother and cost that lover his arm as well.

He drank too much and slept too little, at least lately and according to Malik. It had been a year since Solomon's Temple, but the nightmares were only getting worse. What difference did Malik's apology make when he couldn't forgive himself? He couldn't forgive himself because it all could have been avoided. All he had to do was swallow his pride for a few moments and attack the Templars when they had better odds of winning. But he didn't. He decided that he was single-handedly going to fight off the favorites of King Richard and it had cost him far too much. He wanted to show Malik that he was more than capable of doing anything he wanted to do and he knew that it would be easier with Kaddar around; the youngest Al-Sayf never went against anything he said. He could have said Al-Mualim's beard was made of feathers and Kaddar would have believed it, but only because it was said by Altair.

"Still wallowing in self-pity?"

Altair turned and saw Malik standing behind him. Altair tugged his hood lower over his eyes, but otherwise refused to acknowledge Malik's presence.

"A year has passed, Altair." Malik continued.

Altair pressed his calloused hand against the bark of the tree and followed the grain. He didn't say anything. But he and Malik had progressed beyond just words in their relationship.

"Your depression is more annoying than your pride. At least with your pride I knew that if you somehow managed to hurt yourself you would insist on crawling back to me to fix you up! But I do not like this side of you. I do not think you would come to me for help if you were dying. I think you would just die." Malik said softly.

"Pride caused all of the problems we have, Malik."

"Pride solved our problems, Altair."

"If I had listened to you that day, we could have come back to Maysaf and Kaddar would still be alive and you would still have all of your limbs."

"You were so proud and so convinced at your own abilities that you faced a Grand Master Assassin who was armed with preternatural power with nothing more than your sword and your wits. Only a proud man would do such a thing."

"Proud and stupid." Altair muttered.

"Be that as it may, your pride did just as much good as it did bad." Malik shrugged.

Malik took a step forward and reached out so he could push Altair's hood back. Malik's hand brushed over Altair's face and he smiled faintly.

"Could you say it again for me, Malik?" Altair asked, taking Malik's hand in his own.

"Altair Ibn La-Ahad, I forgive you for the death of my brother and the loss of my arm." Malik said.

Altair silently begged him to continue.

"I forgive you for your pride."

Altair allowed a faint smile to touch his lips for the briefest moment.

"Now if you're done with this self-pity, I would like to go back inside. There is work to be done." Malik reminded him.

Altair's smile grew and he allowed himself to be led back to the massive desk he had left behind. He would have to keep his pride in check; for Malik's sake.


	11. SLOTH

**A/N:** SLOTH, as performed by Altair and Malik, featuring my OC, Zarif, whom I happen to kind of hate because he's kind of a douche bag... Whatevs. XD

**:** Well, I'm really glad you like it, and sorry the update has taken so long. :/

**Silver Lady:** I know just enough Spanish to start crying. T-T But I'm glad you liked what I wrote. That one actually messed me up while I wrote. I was sitting there all sad-faced and my brother thought I was a creep. XD

**Ranchdressing:** YESSS!!! Malik is all our dear little Alti has left. :3 Well, that's the way I like to think about it anyway, haha.

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** I'm actually really paranoid about keeping them in character. X3 it really bothers me to think that there's a chance I did something improperly. I'm glad you loved it. :D

* * *

It was raining for the first time in six months. All that could be heard was the thunder and the wind. Altair sat under the scant covering of one of the many gazebos Maysaf boasted and just missed getting drenched by the downpour. He was sitting on a large, soft pillow with Malik curled against him. They were both enamored with the rain. Altair loved how calm it made everything and how it could give life to everything it touched just as easily as it could take life from everything by drowning it out. The strong would survive, and the weak would be washed away.

Malik loved the way the puddles formed in the mud and reflected the sky and looked like a dark gray that could almost appear black, like Altair's eyes. He loved Altair's eyes. He smiled to himself and cuddled closer to Altair at the thought. The Eagle of Maysaf pulled his lover closer and kissed behind the one-armed man's right ear.

There was a soft chattering nearby and Malik looked into the branches of one of the trees and saw a mother hawk shielding her children against the lashing rain. It was one of the single most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

Things were not so calm within the fortress. A young, scholarly assassin by the name of Zarif was on the verge of tearing his hair out in search of the Grand Masters. There were papers to be reviewed and contracts to sign and assassinations to carried out. He rounded a corner and blinding blue-white lightning flooded the hallway. He squinted his onyx eyes at the brilliant onslaught of light and continued walking. Thunder cracked and rolled through him like a punch in the chest. He continued walking through the corridors, dodging the biting raindrops that were thrown through the glassless windows. The lightning flashed again and he paused by the terrace that overlooked the gardens. Sitting in the largest of the gazeebos were Altair and Malik, smiling at one another. Zarif sighed and chewed on his lower lip. He'd have to brave the storm.

"Master Ibn la-Ahad!" Zarif yelled over the storm. He hurried through the garden, dodging the deepest of the puddles and trying his hardest to keep his robes pristine and white. When he finally made it to the gazeebo, he was soaked through and his robes were spattered with mud, despite his best efforts.

"Master Ibn la-Ahad, there is work to be done." Zarif said haughtily.

"Unless the Templars are in the city, it can wait." Altiar murmured almost sleepily. His hood was pushed away from his face and his dark eyes appeared silverish in the flashing lightning.

"There is much work to be done--"

"I'm sure that the work will still be there tomorrow." Malik said sharply.

"But Master Al-Sayf..."

"It will hold until tomorrow." Malik repeated.

Zarif was at a loss. He nodded his head dumbly and turned away from the gardens, walking back inside and hardly noticing the trail of muddy footprints he'd left on the stone floors in his wake. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Altair's cheek resting on the top of Malik's head. There they were, sitting in the garden in the middle of a monsoon, and there was work to be done. It seemed he would be left with attending matters that were far beyond his pay grade... But he couldn't help but wonder at how relaxed the two of them looked. He had seen great and impossibly bright flashes of lightning strike men down, reduce them to little more than burned and scarred masses of seizing flesh that had difficulty functioning afterwards. And yet the Grand Masters sat easily amongst God's finest torrent.

Altair laced his fingers with Malik's and the sudden crash of thunder that followed rolled through them, making their skin tingle and their hearts skip. The work could wait. It would be there in an hour, in a day, in a week. The storm would last as long as it chose and there was no telling when another would cross their side of the desert. They would sit in the downpour until it ran itself out and then they would trek their way back into the fortress and slog back to Malik's room and enjoy a hot cup of some sort of hot herbal tea. They'd sit around and watch the steam roll off the top of the cups and catch the flickering candlelight. They would take this day and they would spend it so caught up in the moment, they didn't dare notice how much there was to be done and how the future was looming so close to them. For now, they could afford to be lazy.

* * *

**A/N: **This is... Shorter than I wanted it to be, but it was difficult to capture sloth with these guys. Hope I pulled it off... Written while listening to "Carnival of Rust" by Poets of the Fall. It's a good song, but the music video is a little bit of a trip... So maybe that's the reason this is so odd? I don't know... lol.


	12. WRATH

**A/N:** WRATH! Desmond/Shaun pairing, though Desmond takes a little bit of a backseat here. NOW! Leon is a character of my own creation, as is Trent, but the rest belong to Ubisoft. I KNOW LEON IS PORTRAYED AS ALMOST A SPLIT PERSONALITY AND THAT'S HOW I MEANT IT TO LOOK! I'm trying to illustrate how the rage opened up a huge can of ancestral whoop-ass that unleashed Leon's memories and impulses and thoughts and it overcame Desmond and made it all about Leon. Hence his name is used more often than Desmond's.

**dragonlover1313:** I'm glad you liked it. I was kinda pissed at Zarif that last chapter for tryin' to harsh their mellow. :/ lol.

**Gabriel Tunichtgut:** Short doesn't have to mean not awesome. :D hehe.

**:** Sloth was difficult to capture with these guys, that much is true. But I kind of like the idea of the two of them getting so fed up with everything that they just sit in the rain to forget the insanity of it all. :3 I'm glad it worked out so well.

**Hatsu:** Well... I kinda meant for it to be sad, but I didn't want to make you cry. XD I suppose I should say you're welcome, since you did thank me, but I am also compelled to thank _you_ for the glowing review. :3 I'm looking into the Arabic translation book... I used to have very accurate translations, but I moved from Florida and 1,000 miles away from my friend who speaks/reads/writes fluent Arabic. XD

**Pseudo British Kid:** I absolutely adore Bloc Party, so plus five for that one. XD I' mglad you liked the chapter.

**Ranchdressing:** I sincerely thank you for your high praise. :D

* * *

His footsteps echo emptily through the warehouse and the door closes with a harsh click. The light is clicked on and the water starts cool and rapidly heats up. There are drips and strings of pink and occasionally red staining the water as it swirls down the drain.

Desmond glances up and, for a startling and horribly cliched moment, he doesn't recognize the man in the mirror. The eyes are haunted and strangely empty. The moment soon passes and he wipes a spot of blood from his cheek with something closer to apathetic disdain than the gut-wrenching disgust it _should _have been. The light above him is dim and flickering; a pale yellow and a god-awful parody of what it should be. It suits him just fine. He cracks his neck, shuts off the water, turns off the light, and walks out of the tiny room. His steps seem so loud despite their silence, though he wastes no time in contemplating the paradoxical statement. Altair may have been above this, and it may not have crossed Ezio's mind, but there are so many dark and angry ancestors tugging at the shaded and abyssal corners of his mind, those that are clamoring to escape the light and continue to dwell in their blessed darkness. He gives into these dark ones and allows them to do their wicked work because he knows it is the only way for things to get done.

There is a table laying in the middle of the room, a table with a large man strapped to it, a table surrounded by glaring floodlights and out-dated medical equipment. A chill and clean persona envelops Desmond and he feels more detached than he did previously. He knows that this man must be kept alive to be of any use, but alive and comfortable are two very different things. He approaches the man, the one Warren Vidic called "Trent", the man built like a small gorilla, and yet so helpless on the table. Desmond slaps the man back to conciousness and stops only once his eyes are opened.

"What the fuck is this?" Trent demands.

Desmond ignores him and reaches for a syringe and a vial of adrenaline. He fills the syringe and callously jams it into one of Trent's bulging veins.

"The fuck?" Trend demands again.

"This is where things begin getting tricky. You see, I'm going to put you through nine circles of hell and pull you back up by your spine, just to put you back down again. But the whole operation is going to be _very_ counter-productive if you decide to take a nap." Desmond murmurs.(1)

"What are you fucking _talking_ about?"

"I can end all of this before we even start. But if you're a quarter the level of stupid I believe you to be, this is going to be a very long night for _both_ of us. Now. I have a friend named Shaun Hastings. He's about this tall, light brown hair, rust-brown eyes, and the most obnoxious British accent you've ever heard. Where is he?"

"Fuck you!" Trent spits at Desmond, but the attack falls short. Desmond sighs and submits himself completely to this cold persona that offers to shield him from the horror of what had to be done to get their Shaun back.

There is a series of sickening crunches as Trent's fingers are pulled back to his wrists. Every sharp crack that echoes through the warehouse is followed by a short scream and punctuated by the incessant demand to know where Shaun is.

Leon (AltairEzioJamesKeeganDesmond) (2) runs a hand through his short hair and sighs. Trent still refuses to talk. Leon wanders away from the table and he can practically feel Trent's sigh of relief. If he only knew that compassion here was long dead and died the moment they had pulled Shaun away, kicking and screaming, to do only God-knows-what.

He returns with a bottle of something.

"'Johnny was a chemist's son, but Johnny is no more. What Johnny thought was H2O was H2SO4.'(3) A clever little rhyme, isn't it? See, the funny thing about sulfuric acid is how _strong_ this shit really is. Tell me what the fuck I want to know, and I'll just put a bullet in your head and we can skip all the clean-up afterwards."

"You think you can do whatever you want? Abstergo takes care of their own!" Trent is bordering on hysterical and Leon's lip curls into a disconcerting cross between a sneer and a smile.

"No, Trent. Abstergo takes care of those who are useful. You're not useful to them. You're a hired fucking monkey. Now, I will continue to hurt you until you tell me what I want to know."

"They'll find you."

"There's a reason I chose an abandoned warehouse in the middle of a forgotten stretch of nowhere. No one can hear the screams." Leon sighs. He turns Trent's hands and pours a few drops of the clear liquid into the massive palms and waits.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck! Jesus Christ it burns! Put some water on it! Oh, God! Please!" Trent screams. A flicker of compassion crosses behind Leon's amber eyes and Trent zeroes in on it.

"Look, man, just put some water on this shit! Please!"

"You want water poured on that?" Leon asks, furrowing his brow.

"Yeah! Fuck! Do it."

"If it's really what you want." Leon shrugs and lifts a bottle of water and dumps it into Trent's hands. The guard screams louder and thrashes violently enough to cause his restraints to nearly reach their limit.

"What did you do?"

"Gave you what you wanted. Guess I should have mentioned that the strength and dilution of this kind of acid are inversely proportional, huh?" Leon smirks. He watches Trent writhe in pain while the acid eats through skin, muscle and bone.

"Just tell me what it is I want to know." Leon requests apathetically.

"Get fucked."

"I don't want to have to keep doing this to you, Trent. The simple fact of the matter is that every second I waste talking to you is another second just _wasted_. It's another moment I have to spend keeping an eye on you and your bleeding to death. It detracts from my real mission, and that's to just find Shaun. So tell me where to find him before I have to get a little more creative."

"I refuse to tell you _shit_."

Leon looks at his watch and sighs. He's wasting time with these petty tactics. He needs to move quickly before there is no one for him to save.

"This is a little technique I learned from a friend of mine from the Middle East. He was part of what so many Americans enjoy calling the 'Israeli Death Squad'. It's a neat little trick. Highly effective."

Leon picks up a leather belt and wrapps it around one of Trent's legs, tight enough to restric the blood flow effectively. Once the tourniquet is secured, he picks up a scalpel and makes it dance between his fingers. He notices Trent swallow nervously and he smirks to himself.

"You still have a chance to avoid getting hurt any more, Trent."

"I'm not telling you anything."

"You know, I was thinking you'd say that. You're not going to enjoy this. Unfortunately, I'm not going to enjoy this either because it's more time I'm not looking for what belongs to me."

"You deserve to lose everything."

Leon's eyes snap shut, as if Trent had physically struck him. He takes it back. He is going to enjoy every single moment of the gut-wrenching agony he was about to inflict on this waste of time.

"This is going to hurt you a hell of a lot more than it's going to hurt me, Trent."

Desmond watches from the back of his own mind as Leon strips the flesh away from the bone in Trent's leg. He shudders and cringes away from the sight and finds solace and refuge in the strength of Altair's presence. It is as if those strong Arabic arms are wrapped around him and are trying to shelter him from what was going on just outside his realm of control.

The anger and desperation borne of losing Shaun had unleashed Leon. Leon's cool demeanor was a mask made of miles of concrete. Flashing under the surface were sparks of electric emotion that spurred on his every movement. He did what he did because he was good at it and he started it because he had the rage needed to fuel it. Every scream wrought from his "victim" causes his blood to jump and rejoice. This man was good only for what he knew and he wasn't very forthcoming with that knowledge, making him nearly useless. Leon has no restraint when it comes to hurting Trent.

Leon's world was a wash of various shades of red that carried little meaning other than to do whatever it took to release the pressure from the constant and consistant build-up of agony and rage. He slices through layers of muscle and tendon and reaches the bone and begins peeling it away, bit by bit and layer by layer. Leon licks his lips and tastes splatters of blood on his lips. He smirks and shudders at the sparks that slither down his spine as Trent screams hoarsely.

This man, this hired hand, will pay for helping them kidnap Shaun and do only God knows what to him...

He's granted with a mental image that looks like Shaun, tied to a chair and bleeding profusely and Leon screams his question again. Trent chokes on a reply and Leon's residual patience snaps. He slams the scalpel into Trent's upper thight and demands his answer. There's no answer and Leon's rage is no longer contained under the thick mask of indifference. He reaches for a box cuttter and tears into the thin fabric of Trent's shirt, slicing the skin underneath. He digs his fingers into the wound and begins to phyisically tear at the flesh, relishing the feel of blood and muscle as it writhes under his fingernails. He normally doesn't allow himself to become emotional, normally declares that a weakness. But this is something that he cannot forgive, something that can _never_ be forgiven.

Leon is very well aware of the fact that Trent is choking on the pain, aware that his screams are becoming more and more hoarse and ragged and less coherent. There is blood running down the table and no sign of it slowing or stopping. He doesn't care. His fingers are stained with blood and he is fueld by rage from across decades and centuries.

"Tell me where he is!" Leon roars.

He had broken all of the exposed bones in Trent's leg and his ribs and internal organs were showing through his shredded chest and Leon stood over him, panting in an unholy fury.

Desmond doesn't know what Trent says, he leaves all of that to Leon and his inhuman rage. Desmond is safe in the arms of Altair and his cool demeanor. He leaves everything else in Leon's far-too-capable hands. He knows that Leon is taking him to wherever Shaun is, and he's glad that he'll get to see the Brit again.

He does not, however, leave the safety of Altair's memories. When he re-enters his mind, it's still controlled by Leon, still stained with blood and still colored with various shades of rage and murderous intent. It is safer in Jerusalem. It is safer in Maysaf. It is safer in Damascus. It is safer in any location that is not _this one_.

Desmond is lost to the turbulance of Leon and the flying fists and bullets and the unbridled _hate_. He sees flashes of Leon's life, catches the occasional glimpse of things that make his stomach churn; but nothing compares to what he is witnessing here and now.

Leon disembowels a man using a letter opener; he moves on to the next and kills him (somehow) with a toothbrush dropped by some fleeing scientist; there are bloodstains up and down the wall and he just continues to kill _everything_ that stands between him and Shaun. They must all die. They must--

"Stop!"

The whirlwind of alien thoughts and emotions drains away with a suddenness that leaves Desmond dizzy and reeling. He's not sure where he is. He's only aware that Shaun is telling him to stop.

"They're dead, Desmond. Let's just get out of here."

He's spurred on by Leon and Altair and Ezio and Keegan and James and Samuel and so many more to check on what's his... Shaun is fine beyond a few superficial wounds. Desmond pushes Leon's memories away and locks him back in that dark and primal corner of his mind behind a thick pane of glass that says "Break only in case of war"(4).

It is said that transgressions made in the name of vengance and wrath are counted among the worst. Desmond hopes that the phrase is wrong and that there's still hope in forgiveness.

* * *

**(1):** This scene is part "Taken", part "Law Abiding Citizen", neither of which are mine.

**(2):** The jumble of names is mostly just to show that there's a hell of a distance between "Leon" and everyone else. Also, the name "Leon" wasn't chosen arbitrarily. I was watching Resident Evil: Degeneration (the CG one) on FearNet and I have a massive crush on the character named Leon. In fact, my favorite phrase soon became: "God_ damn_, Leon. -lip bite-"

**(3): **Also not mine. Found on a t-shirt on ThinkGeek website. I thought it was catchy and sticks with Leon's fucked-up personality. :D

**(4):** Guess what! It's not mine! A (slightly modified) quote from the glorious "Heartbreak Ridge" featuring the FUCKING AWESOME(!) Clint Eastwood. :D


	13. Self Medication

**A/N:** This is just a little bit of "fluff" I came up with. Desmond's drinking. Shaun just wants to help. 600 words. Hella short for me, ne? Hope you guys like it. :3 Includes references to Leon and the introduction of a new OC, Joslinn.

**dragonlover131313:** I love Leon, steroids or not. I also happen to love Chris Redfield. Also, Oded Feher as Olivera in the movies... Heheh... ANYWAY! Glad you enjoyed WRATH.

**Missjulia Miriam:** You are, by no means, sick or twisted, probably because I got such immense joy from _writing it_, haha. I'm not a fan of Templars either, so we're level on that, haha. And I really enjoy the idea of Desmond almost having Dissociative Identity Disorder (WHICH IS NOT THE SAME AS SCHIZOPHRENIA, BEFORE SOMEONE COMMENTS (not neccesarily you)) because of his ancestors crowding his head-space. It's actually a concept I was developing for my full-length fic. That I lost when my USB drive got busted. o.O And I'll keep that little trick for your name in mind. I was wondering whose username kept playing "run away" games. XD

**Ranchdressing:** It's not bad that you enjoyed Trent's ass-kicking. I specifically designed the kid to be as obnoxious as possible. :D My brother actually now leaves the room any time I visit FearNet and stop over Res Ev: Degen for longer than a second because he knows it's ending with a whole lot of "God _damn, _Leon..." -lipbite- haha.

**My Beloved Loveless:** Creating Leon was actually a very tedious undertaking for me. I wanted him to be a cold-blooded "Kill 'em all, sort the bodies later" kind of guy, but I didn't want him to be _crazy_. I wanted Shaun's disappearance to be Desmond's que to hide behind Altair (and that phrase promotes some very adorable chibi mental images. :3), while his reappearance is Leon's cue to get the fuck out because he's _smart_, not _crazy_, so he knows when he's not wanted. This chapter only hints at Leon, but I adore his character, so he will be appearing again soon.

**Sazuka-Chan:** I seem to have a lot of twins running around here... Maybe the cloning machine DID work! I mean! I happen to be a huge fan of action movies and horror films, so it's only natural for me to reference them. I've also taken several chemistry-intensive science courses and my mother holds a degree in chemistry (as well as a few other random things, like psychology, and nursing) so I tend to reference things like that all the time. :D

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Well... Now that you mention it... Haha. I'm working on a full-lenght, and yes, Leon is in it, as well as another OC that I feel you guys will love to death... Hehe.

* * *

"You should stop. This isn't healthy."

"Fuck you."

"Desmond, you've had enough."

"It'll never be enough."

Shaun reached for the bottle of tequila in Desmond's hands, but his efforts were rewarded with an irritated growl and a fist swung in his direction.

"At least _talk_ to me." Shaun pleaded.

Desmond had been sitting at the kitchen table for nearly six hours, drinking from whatever bottle of booze he could get his hands on. After the first two hours, Shaun thought he had sucessfully hidden all of the alcohol. Unfortunately the bleeding effect had taken over and the bottles had glowed yellow to Desmond, rendering all efforts useless.

Shaun sat next to the inebriated Animus patient and waited.

"If you heard and saw the things I have... Altair is one of the _nicer_ ancestors, Shaun. He's one of the sane ones. Does that give you any idea of what I'm going through right now?" Desmond asked, turning his glassy eyes towards the Brit.

Shaun wasn't sure of how to respond, so he remained silent and waited for Desmond to continue.

"There's one, Leon... He lives to hurt people and kill everyone. That's what he's good at and he knows it. So that's what he does." Desmond shook his head and took another swill from the bottle.

"Then there's Joslinn. She was a nurse during the Second World War. Her memories reek of infection and charred skin and death and gunpowder. All I can see is blood... Amputees... Christ, Shaun... Do you know how many kids lied about their age to help the war effort? There was one kid, said his name was Johnathan Swick. He told the Army recruiter he was nineteen. He was a good-looking kid at one point... When he met Joslinn, he was missing his right leg from the knee down and part of his face was shredded away. He told her his name was Robert Swick and he was sixteen. Johnathan was his older brother that died in a mine collapse two years before the war started."

Shaun rested his hand on Desmond's shoulder and tried his hardest to be comforting.

"See, when I drink, their memories aren't as clear." Desmond smiled faintly and Shaun gently pried the bottle of tequila from Desmond's now-loosened grip.

"You know I'm here for you, Desmond." Shaun murmured.

"Being here for me doesn't make _them_ any quieter."

"Try focusing more on me and less than them."

Desmond looked up at Shaun with a faint and watery smile. He stood with a slight wobble and Shaun caught him and walked him back to the bedroom they shared and gently deposited the distraught Abstergo escapee on the bed. He laid next to Desmond and allowed himself to be wrapped up in warm arms.

"Are you okay, Des?" Shaun asked.

"I haven't been okay since this started. Kinda sad when 'not okay' becomes 'normal', huh?" Desmond chuckled darkly.

"I'll talk to Lucy and Rebecca. We'll find a way to fix you." Shaun promised.

Desmoned purred some sort of response and Shaun looked up to find Desmod was half-asleep. Shaun cuddled closer and ignored the heavy smell of alcohol and pressed a kiss to Desmond's forehead. There wasn't much he could do right now, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying everything he could to find a way to help.


	14. Predatory

**A/N:** This one is pretty Leon-centric. The bleeding effect is starting to bother Desmond and one ancestor in particular wants to take the helm... Desmond(Leon)/Shaun. ALSO! This chapter is dedicated to **Pseudo British Kid. **Hope this helps you out some, love.

**dragonlover131313:** Yes, Dessie is a little more fucked up than even _he_ will admit, haha. And I figured, if he's determined to get drunk, then the acohol is going to be his target and he can put that Eagle Vision to use. :D Maybe Ubisoft will reveal some more awesomeness that is the inside of Desmond's head. But I don't think they're very keen on DeShaun either. XD

**Ranchdressing:** Yeah, Desmond's always gettin' the fuzzy end of the lollipop. But I'm sure the awesome sex with shaun makes up for it. XD And besides, Leon Kennedy is the background on my computer at home, work, and on my cell phone. XD

**duvalia:** Yeah, I can see what you mean about it being a little "Fight Club", but it works, and that's what counts, right? haha. And as far as Res Ev Leon goes, I'll take him however I can get him. XD

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Awh. I'm glad you liked it. :D

**Missjulia Miriam:** Well, I have a few ideas with a totally mind-fucked cannon Desmond. I just have to convince myself that I need to write them NOW. Haha. I will be continuing the concept of inside Desmond's head, it's just gonna take a little time, haha.

**SecretSnow:** I think you should draw that scene anyways. :D I'm positive it would come out better than I could draw it. There's a reason I'm a writer and not an artist. I'm lucky if I can remember to give them four limbs. XD If you do draw that scene from Chapter 12, I would LOVE to see it. :D

* * *

Out of every living thing, Leon most respected the wolf. It could easily survive on its own, and only chose to stay with a pack if they were strong enough to keep up.

Leon was very much a predator, a caged one, looking for a strong mate that knew how to think on his own and still take direction when it came time. But he was still stuck viewing the world through Desmond's eyes, still trapped; watching, lurking just below the surface, only influencing things when Desmond was too tired to realize he wasn't the one that was really making the choices...

But Desmond was wearing down. Leon's constant attacks and assaults through his memories had worn him down to the point where Desmond's every move was determined by Leon's motives. There were a few that Desmond fought, despite his exhaustion, and those were the ones Leon wanted to act on the most...

"What are you moping about now?" Shaun demanded.

Desmond lazily looked up. Leon's bloody, violent memories had become his nightmares, regardless of if he was sleeping or not. He was waking up in a cold sweat and wondering when the feeling of blood running down his arms was so _erotic_. He would be watching television and the next thing he knew, he was standing over a corpse with a sick sense of satisfaction, licking the blood flecks off his lips and grinning like a fool. Then it would fade and he would be lying on the floor, gasping for breath and wondering how much time he lost.

"I'm not moping about anything." Desmond snapped.

"You could've fooled me."

Desmond cracked his neck. He was in no mood to deal with this. Leon's memories brushed against Desmond's own mind and, with an exhausted mental collapse, he finally relented.

"Don't fuck with me, Shaun." His voice was a rough growl, and it caught Shaun off-guard.

"I was unaware you were so sensitive." He quickly recovered.

Leon raised Desmond's head and leveled Shaun with a glare that would have made Altair second-guess fucking with him. But Shaun had his pride to protect, and he refused to back down. Leon was appreciative of that much. A weak mate was useless. Leon stood and stepped towards Shaun, gauging his reaction. Shaun stood straighter, stiffer, tenser, but he didn't move away. Leon grabbed Shaun and threw him against the wall with enough force for the Brit's back to pop. Shaun tried squirming out of Leon's grasp, but the low growl and warning snarl stopped him.

Shaun nervously licked his lips and waited for Leon to make his next move. He could tell by the suble color change of Desmond's eyes, no longer honey-gold, but now a greenish hazel, that Desmond wasn't quite himself. Leon gently nuzzled the side of Shaun's neck for a moment.

"What are you doing?" Shaun demaned, trying again to squirm away.

Leon growled louder and slammed Shaun against the wall again. This time, Leon kissed Shaun with a vicious force. Shaun whimpered and Leon had to repress a sneer. But, just as he had before, Shaun soon recovered. He gave in, whether to keep Leon from attacking him again or if it was because he just wanted to do this all along, and Shaun was soon kissing Leon with plenty of force of his own. Leon purred lowly and lapped at Shaun's lips. The Limey hummed and opened them.

The only thing saving Shaun from being cast to the side and deemed useless was how much he was fighting for control, despite taking his direction from Leon. He was following the pace of the fight, but he wasn't about to just give in. Leon was enjoying this display... Shaun grabbed the back of Leon's neck and pulled him closer, feeling his lips begin to bruise. He didn't care. Leon's fingers wrapped into Shaun's hair and tilted his head back. He bit Shaun's neck and shoulder, leaving bruises in his wake. Shaun whimpered and moaned with a distinct lack of control over his responses. Leon smirked And his free hand traveled slowly down Shaun's side, across his chest, over his abs, and lower towards his crotch. Shaun arched into the touch.

"Want something?" Leon asked with a smirk.

"Goddammit, Desmond. You _know_ what I want."

"Say it."

"I'm not going to play your stupid fucking game." Shaun snapped.

"You are if you plan on getting what you want."

"Dammit Desmond."

Leon's tongue left a glistening path down the side of Shaun's neck before he purred, "My game is the only one we're playing, and the only way for you to come out ahead is to follow the rules I make."

Shaun bit down on the inside of his cheek and weighed his options. This could end well, or as a tragedy. He needed to choose, and fast.

"Desmond... I... Want you... To..."

"Yes?" Leon bit Shaun's jawline.

"Iwantyoutofuckme."

"That's no good. Say it right."

"Desmond, I want you to fuck me." Shaun choked. That was certainly not something he ever wanted to have to say to someone, especially not Subject Sixteen. He was supposed to be superior!

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Leon asked. His hand again travelled to the very obvious erection straining Shaun's pants and he chuckled, "Or maybe it is."

"Fuck you, Desmond."

"No, no, no. We've already established that it's going to be the other way around."

The door to Desmond's room slammed shut only moments later, and with a softer slam, the lock was thrown. Shaun found himself tossed carelessly onto the bed and Leon fell upon him with roaming hands, gnashing teeth, a predatory fury, and an all-consuming lust. Shaun gasped and moaned and hoped the point was understood. But that wasn't enough for Leon. He wanted to _hear _what Shaun wanted. It was a display of dominance on Leon's part, and a test of obedience for Shaun. He took the direction, but he was careful to take revenge in whatever way he could, usually in the attempted supression of moans and biting harder than necessary.

When it was all said and done, and Leon had finally gotten his way and had his way with Shaun, he relapsed back to the far corners of Desmond's mind with a contented sigh and the faint whisper of "Acceptable". Desmond smiled to himself in his sleep and pulled the napping Shaun closer. Maybe all of the "remembered" bloodshed had been worth it.

* * *

**A/N2:** Tada! More Leon-centric stuff. I love Leon. He's one of my favorite OC's to date. :D Hope you guys enjoyed reading it. :D


	15. Runaway

**A/N:** This one was inspired by an odd moment at work. One of my co-workers is a very close friend of the family and he dug an old neon sign from his garage when he was clearing it out and decided it would be funny to bring it into the office and plug it in. Well, I'm always the last person to leave the office (the first one in, too -_-') and he turned the light off on his way out, telling me I spent all my time working in the dark anyway. Being too tired and too lazy to get up and turn the lights back on, I finished up my work and started cleaning up my desk. I looked at my (favorite) white purse and saw the way it looked like blue and red and black in the light coming from the neon sign and for some reason I was just like, "Desmond in a bar. Runaway. Shaun enters bar. Brings him back. SEX." Haha. Hope you guys like it.

**SecretSnow:** Your sketch doesn't look that bad, so shuddup about sucking, lol. I can see, sometimes, how there needs to be a dominant one and a submissive one, but I agree with you that it doesn't make sense to just have one member of the relationship just being, "I'm yours! Do what you will to me because I'll break character only for you!" That has to happen over a pain-staking course of character development, you know?

**Missjulia Miriam:** I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to make a chapter revolve solely on how mind-fucked Desmond is. I have a few ideas, but none of them are better than half-baked at best. They'd turn out better, but you know how delicate souffle is... I mean! haha. I'm working on it. It's just being difficult. And anyone who doesn't love Leon needs to invest in being more sado-masochistic! XD

**Ranchdressing:** Well... Not to get your hopes up too high... But I'm thinking about taking _my_ Leon and giving him his own, full-length story over on FictionPress. :D

**Pseudo British Kid:** Thanks for the praise. You inspired me, as well.

**dragonlover131313:** Yes, I love the dominance fights... heheh... And Desmond _does_ know what happened. He was there, he just wasn't in control. Like sitting in the cockpit of an airplane on auto-pilot. The pilot knows what's going on, he's just not actually doing anything, if that makes sense. Details are always important with me, unless of course the idea is to represent fragmentation. OH MY GOD. You just inspired me. I love you. :)

**duvalia:** I like the idea of some of the ancestors being keen on following the rules (Altair), doing things for their personal motives (Ezio), doing things because they embrace their mental instability and you can't spell Slaughter without Laughter (Leon), or being philathropic because the world needs good (my briefly referenced Joslinn). And the simple fact of the matter is that there isn't much that's good for Desmond. It was like that in the game, where even walking down the hall to get some rest results in strang hallucinations.

* * *

His white hoodie was washed in shades of blue and red and he watched pale flickers of yellow trace his sleeve. The flashing neon sign started the cycle again and the colors continued dancing. He sipped at his beer and, for a fleeting moment, he missed being on the other side of the bar. Life was easier when his biggest worry was constructing the perfect daqueri. He cracked his neck and warily looked over the other patrons of the small bar and sighed when he heard the door open. He counted the footsteps, _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, stop_. The barstool next to him was quietly occupied and a beer was ordered.

"You've been gone for quite some time."

He snorted at the comment. He had no intentions of returning this soon.

"They're worried about you."

He didn't dignify that with a comment.

"Don't you think a month is long enough?"

Desmond ignored the Brit and sipped from the brown bottle in his hands. He was in no mood for this brand of conversation. Shaun traced idle patters in the water puddles on the bar left by condensation pouring off the cool bottles. Talking with Desmond was dificult at the best of times, even more so when he was in a pissy mood like he was now.

"They use the same methods as Abstergo. Their intentions just happen to be better. You have any idea what it's like inside of my head?" Desmond demanded.

Shaun couldn't say he did. He was often confused abou what was going on in his head-space, and he was the only one living there. Desmond had how many ancestral memories clouding things up?

"I look around a room and my first thoughts are the practicality of the decor. Is the table I'm at thick enough to stop a bullet if I have to flip it over and hide behind it? What can I throw in their way to slow them down and give me the upperhand? The second thing I look for are the exits. Where to the staff go when they leave the floor? What are the odds of an exit through the kitchen? Is there a back door somewhere? I can't even walk into a room and just look at their choice of wood for a table without considering the strength and durability and stopping power and all of this stupid shit that I shouldn't have to worry about."

"Des-"

"The worst part is that it's not something I can turn on and off. It's _always_ on. It's not like I can just decide to look around a room and stop looking for threats, enemies and escape routes. It's the worst of paranoias and there's nothing that can be done to fight it."

"Is that why you ran? To keep out of the Animus and keep the paranoia at bay?"

"It's bad enough hearing echos of their memories all goddamned day. The last thing I want is to have to hear the screams while I'm strapped to that damn chair."

"Let my help you." Shaun whispered.

"You can't clear up what's in my head."

Shaun closed his eyes. He had an idea of how he could help. He'd read "missing" pages from Altair's Codex, pages that read more like a diary, pages that told Shaun the best fix for the insanities of the Apple of Eden, and those were surely comprable to what Desmond was experiencing. Shaun put a bill on the table and motioned to the bartender that they were to cover both their drinks. He grabbed Desmond by the arm and pulled him from the bar. Subject Sixteen protested, but didn't fight against Shaun.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Desmond demanded. Shaun threw him against the rough brick wall and kissed him quickly and harshly. Desmond pushed him away.

"That's your solution? You're just going to jump me in a deserted street outside an empty bar?" Desmond demanded.

"Don't tell me you've never lived those memories, Desmond. You've seen how Altair and Malik have gone at it and you've _felt_ how calm Altair is after the fact. Don't tell me you haven't thought about trying it." Shaun growled.

Desmond responded by throwing Shaun off of him. The historian stumbled, but Desmond grabbed him and pulled him down the sidewalk.

"Desmond? What are you-" He pushed by Rebecca and left the door to their cabin hanging wide open. She looked after the two men and scratched the back of her head before she closed and bolted the door and returned to the couch where Lucy was sitting.

"What was all the noise about?" Lucy asked.

"Desmond kicked the door in and drug Shaun back to the bedrooms."

"Desmond's back? How did Shaun pull that off?" She stood with the intent of following the men back there and demanding answers, but Rebecca's firm grip on her wrist made her pause.

"The intent when they went back there was either murderous or sexual. I'd leave the two of them be."

Shaun made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp, a whimper, a moan and a growl. Desmond's teeth were incredibly sharp, but the sensational havoc they were wreaking on his feverish skin prevented him from caring.

Desmond noted the Brit's skin tasted of salt and something else. Something he would define later. That basic portion of his mind, the paranoid, primative one that scanned rooms for entrances, exits, escape routes, defensive points and enemies had caught the scent of Shaun's lust. He kissed Shaun roughly and pushed him back towards the bed, sending them sprawling backwards against the mattress.

Looking up at Subject Sixteen, the historian saw it; there was that cliched spark in Desmond's eyes, the one romance novelists use so frequently in their trashy, throw-away paperback novels. But where they got it wrong, Desmond was getting it _so_ right. This gleam didn't promise several long, slow hours of gentle, careful love-making until you were left satisfied and feeling complete and content to bask in each other's presence until the wee hours of the morning when you finally tired of seeing who's more in love with whom. This gleam could only promise an indefinite period of fast, harsh, sado-masochistic sex that left you breathless and bruised and with an unwillingness to sleep based on the knowledge that the current pleasure-pain would be more pain come sunrise.

Shaun's nails dug into the heated, sweat-slicked skin of Desmond's back, moaning like a cheap whore with his legs spread and Desmond so _wonderfully_ deep inside of him.

The white sheets were washed in silvery-blue that could only be created by moon-beams and he watched flickers of sharp white flicker under the door. There was a laugh from the television in the living room and the flashing continued. He pulled his napping partner closer and, for a brief moment, wondered why he hadn't thought of this in the first place. Life was simpler when your biggest concern was just getting off. Desmond sighed and scanned the room again, this time only wondering how pissed Lucy would be when she saw the dent in the wall where he'd thrown Shaun a little _too_ violently. The door opened and he was suddenly irritated. He counted the voices, _one, two_. The giggles echoed through the room and the door to the bedroom was soon closed again.

"They've been theorizing about us for quite some time." Shaun murmured sleepily.

Desmond snorted at the comment. He just wanted to get a little more sleep.


	16. Time To Burn

**A/N:** This one is rough... I wish I could say I did a thorough job of editing, but that would be a lie. If it's rough or it sucks, I'm sorry. An idea that came through my sleep-deprived mind driving around 75 miles an hour on my way home and I was like, "FUCK! Desmond!" And that was the end of the thought process. XD The song used in the story is "Time To Burn" by The Rasmus. I lvoe them. They're amazing and the first Finnish band I ever listened to. Hope you guys like the story. :3

**DragonLover131313:** I don't look at the Animus as some sort of science project with an on/off switch. Sifting through centuries of memories has to be traumatic and with the bleeding effect visibly effecting Desmond like it did in the second game... It kind of makes sense that he'd be paranoid and have no idea how to cope with all of these off the wall memories. And the thing with Desmond and Shaun is that their personalities are more hinted at than explicit because the focus is on the past, so I really think their relationship could go either way as far as dominance is concerned.

**Missjulia Miriam:** I would very much like to see what you have written. :3 A PM is fine, or my email is posted in my profile. Looking forward to hearing from you. :)

**xGhostxStealth:** It's a problem of mine. I don't look explicitly at what they show. I'm more interested in what _isn't_ shown. I think you gather more of a back story if you read between the lines. Besides, I have this HUGE accent fetish, so the second Shaun Hastings sauntered on screen, I really wanted to see what was up, haha.

**SecretSnow:** I don't believe there is anything believable about quickly developing characters. Things just don't happen that way. I like an element of realism, even if it is something "silly" like fanfiction. And there is nothing wrong with getting giddy when you discover something new about a character because I'm the same way. You should have seen my reaction when I discovered the Call of Duty wikia. Also, you sketch is not god-awful as you make it sound. Practice makes perfect. Trust me. There are quite a few stories that no longer exist except in my nightmares. Your art will eventually get to where you want it, all in good time. Can't wait to see your coloring, btw. ;)

**neverlife:** Ah, yes. Disregard my blatant semi-retardation. It comes and goes, though lately it seems to be stuck in the "on" position. XP

**Ranchdressing:** It's like my favorite line from 27 Dresses: (in reference to the younger sister being married first): "Yeah, it is a little frustrating. Then I remember I get to have hot, angry hate sex with random strangers and I feel _so_ much better." XD Yes, hate sex is the answer to everything. And if it isn't the answer, you're clearly not being sado-masochistic enough. XD

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Haha. Thank you. It's my goal to make even the dirty parts sound clean, and _still_ give you a nosebleed. Haha. As my friend once said, "You could make a sailor blush at your god-awful cursing or make Shakespeare weak at the knees with your god-like imagery." Hope I'm living up to that. XD

* * *

He was loosing sleep one night at a time. It would begin as a few hours lost here or there and then it became entire nights and the nights bled into weeks and the weeks never seemed to end anymore. It was beginning to show. His eyes were dulled and glassy and his smiles were lacking. He stopped eating and would often stare at nothing for hours at a time simply because he was too exhausted to function. But he didn't sleep.

Shaun was beginning to worry. At first he wasn't too concerned with the insomnia. He knew that Desmond was having dreams linked to the things he saw in the Animus, and he knew there was no way around that. But it was when the sleeplessness began making Desmond lethargic and careless and anorexic, he began to be more and more concerned. He would often find Desmond awake and staring at the television screen without even knowing what show was on. Whenever Subject Seventeen was cornered or questioned, he would become irritable and sometimes violent.

A crash echoed through the empty house and Shaun's head snapped towards the sound. Rebecca was upstairs, sick and sleeping, and Lucy was several miles away picking up medicine and other supplies. That meant...

"Desmond." Shaun whispered. He pushed himself away from the chair and ran to the kitchen. Desmond was sitting on the cold tile floor, staring at the broken remains of a coffee mug and a bowl around him. It didn't even seem he truly noticed he was sitting in a ring of broken glass; he just stared lifelessly at the tile.

"Des? Are you alright?" Shaun asked gently, cautiously. Desmond nodded, but didn't look away from the spot on the floor that held his attention. Shaun moved around him quickly and gathered up the largest of the pieces to throw away before he returned with a broom to get up all the smaller ones.

"We need to get you to bed." Shaun murmured. He pulled Desmond to his feet and towards the bedroom. Desmond followed him, too exhausted to resist. Shaun talked to him, despite not expecting an answer. He just needed to fill the silence.

"You can't keep this self-induced insomnia going. It just isn't healthy. You're going to kill yourself, you know that?" Shaun pushed Desmond onto the bed and helped him pull his hoodie off and burrow deep into the blankets.

"I can't sleep, Shaun. They won't let me." Desmond's smile was tired and bitter and he didnt want to sleep.

_**Fear of the dark tears me apart,  
Won't leave me alone, and time keeps running out.  
Just one more life, I'm so sick and tired  
Of singing the blues. I should turn my life around.**_

Shaun knew what he was talking about, but there wasn't really anything he could do to help Desmond. They all knew what the risks of the Animus project were when they started this, and Desmond had all-too willingly thrown himself head first into things. Shaun wished there were a way he could keep their memories separate. He wished Desmond could remember his own life better than he remembered Altair's or Ezio's. But there wasn't anything that any of them could do...

"It's hard for me to tell what's real sometimes, you know? I wake up in the morning and I'm not sure if it's right for me to be waking up with you next to me. Some days I'm disgusted with myself and wondering what happened to Malik or I'm shocked at my alcoholism and I wonder if I've hurt Leonardo... It's all blurring together for me, Shaun."

"You're not going back into the Animus for a little while. I'm not letting them stick you in there. I don't want to lose you. Not to this."

"We don't have a choice, Shaun. We never have. If we stop this now, they could win the whole goddamned war. I won't let them win. I _won't_. Desmond's mood was rapidly deteriorating and Shaun knew his only option was to backpedal.

"You're in no condition to help the war effort if you can't even hold your eyes open. You need to get at least a little sleep."

Desmond seemed to realize what he was doing because he suddenly looked ashamed of himself and apologized to Shaun.

"Will you stay here with me? You know, wake me up if I start screaming too loud?" Desmond chuckled. The archivist crawled into the bed and pressed against Desmond's side.

_**Tell me why do I feel this way?  
All my life, I've been standing on the boarderline.  
Too many bridges burned,  
Too many lies I've heard.  
Had a life but I can't go back,  
I can't do that, it'll never be the same again.  
But I know I don't  
Have any time to burn.**_

If he absolutely had to rate his level of concern, Shaun would have put it very high at this particular moment. Desmond looked as if he were sleeping peacfully, for now. But it was only a matter of time before that chagned. Desmond would often fall asleep easily enough, only to wake up after a few hours, screaming, sweating, thrashing, confused and unsure of what _century_ it was. Shaun would have to calm him down, remind him of who, when, where he was. Desmond wouldn't go back to sleep after that. He wouldn't talk about what he saw either. He'd just sit there, silent, watching his British lover sleep with an envious gleam to his honey-gold eyes.

Now the roles were reversed. For the moment, at least. Desmond was sleeping soundly, and Shaun was grateful that he would get at least a few hours of rest. Desmont stiffened and made a noise that tore at Shaun's heart. The sound was somewhere between a whimper and a growl. Hastings put a firm hand on Desmond's chest and told him that he needed to stop worrying over something that was only real in a dream and get some sleep. Whether it was the familiarity of his voice or the firmness in his tone, Miles quieted and seemed to settle back down.

Lucy either didn't notice or didn't care how haggard Subject Seventeen was becoming. Everytime Shaun brought it up, the "Simpering Stillman" insisted that if something were bothering him, Desmond would say something to her. Shaun wondered if she actually believed herself when she said that.

Desmond's eyes snapped open and he sat up. He'd been fighting... Blood, arrows, swords everywhere... His breathing was ragged and he knew it had been a nightmare... Too bad he could still taste blood on the back of his tongue. His breathing felt restricted and he couldn't force his diaphragm to work. Shaun pulled him close and told him it was okay. Desmond lost control in a very undignified way and proceeded to sob into Shaun's chest.

Shaun knew that it would only be a matter of time before Desmond cried himself to sleep. It was nearly a natural response, especially after keeping everything so closed off for so long...

_**They follow me home, disturbing my sleep.  
But I'll find a place, a place where they cannot find me.  
Maybe I'm lost, and maybe I'm scared  
But too many times I've closed the doors behind me.**_

He wished there was something he could do, but there wasn't much Shaun could do, especially with Desmond refusing to talk about the dreams. Shaun rubbed circles on his lover's back and cursed whatever god would let him suffer like this. He was tired of seeing Desmond with that haunted look. He wondered if this was how Malik felt when he watched Altair dive again and again into the Apple of Eden. He was helpless and he hated every second of it.

Desmond's sobs slowed and his breathing began to slowly even out and Shaun knew that he had fallen asleep sitting up with his hands curled tightly around the fabric of Shaun's shirt. Hastings leaned back against the headboard and continued trying to soothe Miles. Nothing they had tried worked. Alcohol just made him more violent when he woke up. He fought against the sleeping pills Lucy had snuck into his food. They just had to wait for him to fall asleep on his own. And the problem was that he wasn't going to just sleep. He could _never_ just sleep. Not lately.

Shaun's fingers scraped through Desmond's short hair and over his scalp. He'd stay up all night if it meant Desmond could sleep. The truth was that Shaun felt guilty knowing that his dreams were a safe-haven away from the world while they only made Desmond more pesimistic and cynical. He could force himself to stay awake for this night, for Desmond. Subject Seventeen wormed closer to the warmth rolling from Shaun and found comfort and solace in the archivist's presence.

"No." Desmond whispered. Shaun jolted upright, unaware of how close to sleeping he'd been until Desmond had spoken.

"Nooo. Stop it... Please." Desmond moaned.

"It's alright, Desmond. Just a dream is all."

The descendent of the assassin's line jerked awake at the sound of his name and looked around, confused, afraid, wound too tight. He turned to Shaun and seemed relieved to see him staring back at him. There was no warning as the amber-eyed assassin pushed the British techie back and kissed him with centuries of pent-up fear, frustration, and sexual tension. He allowed his mouth to be plundered and, only a few minutes later, his body to be ravished. He moaned Desmond's name lowly, half afraid of waking Rebecca up. Every whisper of Desmond's name brought a spark about in those warm gold eyes and Shaun felt compelled to keep that spark alive. Something told him Desmond was finding his solace in the storm of ancient nightmares.

_**Tell me why do I feel this way  
All my life I've been standing on the boarderline,  
Too many bridges burned,  
Too many lies I've heard.  
Had a life but I can't go back,  
I can't do that, it'll never be the same again,  
And I know I don't  
Have any time to burn.**_

The afterglow of sex surrounded them like a protective bubble and Desmond napped with his head on Shaun's chest. From dominant persona to sleeping in a submissive pose in all of two minutes. Shaun wrapped his arms around Desmond and listened to the sound of his deep, even breathing.

Behind his closed eyelids, Desmond was again confroted by the ghosts of his ancestors, but he stood proud this time. He would _not_ let the memories of their wars overcome him. He had seen something in Shaun's eyes. It was some sort of strange acceptance that he couldn't categorize. It was highlighted by love and undertoned by a masochistic desire to help, no matter what it cost him. Desmond stood tall as Ezio and Altair whispered memories that told like horror stories. He ignored them and the onslaught they threw at him. He remained calm despite their attacks on his sanity. He knew that, no matter what they threw at him, he would have to face it and be strong for Shaun's sake.

He felt the light before it registered with any of his other senses. He slowly opened his eyes and realized he was still wrapped up around Shaun, who was similarly wrapped around him. He was safe.

_**Leave it all behind,  
Cross the boarderline.  
Face the truth, don't have any time to...  
Have anytime to burn.  
Tell me why do I feel do I feel this way,  
All my life I've been standing on the boarderline,  
Too manhy bridges burned,  
Too many lies I've heard.  
Had a life but I can't go back,  
I can't do that, it'll never be the same again,  
And I know I don't  
Have any time to burn.**_

_

* * *

_

**A/N2:** Yeah. This is what happens when I'm listening to old CD's while driving down Interstate 695 after a long day of work... Not my best, but whatever. I'm sure you guys will understand. I've worked 50 hours this week and I've slept less than that. A lot less. -_-' Anyway. Review. I'll love you a lot. lessthanthree.


	17. Love and Lovers

**A/N:** Okay. This one sorta, kinda deals with religion. I'm not claiming that any of these beliefs are/are not my own, and this is NOT going to become an open forum for which religion/god/goddess/teacher/prophet/whatever is right. I'm trusting all of you to be mature about this. There are hints throughout the games, especially the first, that the Assassins are generally either atheists or agnostics, and that's what I'm basing this on. Please don't take this as an attack against your religion or something silly like that. **FLAMES (ESPECIALLY REGARDING AFOREMENTIONED FORBIDDEN RELIGIOUS DEBATES) WILL BE USED TO ROAST YOUR FELLOW TROLLS.**

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** I'm glad you liked it. Hope you like this one too.

**dragonlover131313:** Realism is my goal. I don't want it to be a boring story. I want it to be something you can see, something with substance. I like to think I do the game some degree of justice... Helps me sleep at night. XD

**xGhostxStealth:** I have to say, pricks are my favorite type of guys. XD I'm glad I'm making Desmond grow on you. Even if he is a whiny little bitch. XD

**Ranchdressing:** Yes, that one was kinda hurt/comfort, wasn't it? I'm glad you enjoyed it anyway.

**FarieAislin: **Truth be told, the concept of Desmond's creepy ancestor intrigues me... I feel it's time for another OC to make an appearance... I think I'll look into it. :3

**Sarah:** Glad you enjoyed the stories so much. :D

* * *

Altair had little use for religion. He found that the people who followed them were usually conceited and narcissistic and only went to a church, or a synagogue or a mosque because they believed it would put them ahead of everyone else in terms of their rewards to come in an afterlife. They were self-serving and violent.

He had been sent to several churches to follow the Christian Templars, and he had heard a great many things that simply made no sense to him.

"God is love," was a phrase he had heard used often. And yet in the same sermon, the church-goers were reminded that all of those who chose the wrong religion would spend an eternity burning in a hell of fire and brimstone. It was a concept that seemed hypocritical to him.

Besides, wouldn't a god with unlimited knowledge, love, and patience be more understanding? And from what he could tell, many religions overlapped in many various aspects. Angels, demons, heaven for the righteous and worthy, and hell for all others... They all believed in the same thing, but they warred over the details. It was like two armies clashing over two separate maps that led to the same place using different routes.

But there was one verse he had heard that stuck with him. He had been sitting in an alley, bleeding profusely, when a nun had found him. She was a young woman, and very pretty as well, and she stopped to help him. Altair was certain he had been close to death, and was ashamed to admit that he was a little afraid of not knowing what would come after. He asked her if love could ever be a sin.

"Love, if it is truly and purely love, is not a sin." She told him.

But the Eagle had heard their stories of how men loving men was a crime in the eyes of their God. The nun insisted on helping him to his feet and half-dragging him to a church with a hospital wing to at least stitch his wounds.

"How do you know love is truly and purely love?" Altair asked as she wound a bandage around his torso.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, then I am but a resounding gong or clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part, and we prophecy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfection disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: Faith, Hope and Love. But the greatest of these is Love." She murmured while she worked.

Altair thanked her and reached for his discarded top. The nun handed him his crimson sash almost reluctantly. He knew the look in her eyes was recognition and he tensed. He didn't want to kill this kind woman...

"Whatever endeavors you take, take them with care, sir Assassin."

"You say this though your God condemns the killing of others?" Altair asked cautiously.

"God works in mysterious ways. Were he not utilizing you in some unknown way, I doubt he would have guided me to walk through the slums of this city instead of taking my usual way here."

"You won't stop me from going?"

"I ask only that you go with God to wherever you choose to go."

"I hope your god is as kind as you." Altair murmured as he tied his sash.

The nun smiled after him, but he was soon gone from her line of sight.

_"Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud."_

Altair sighed to himself and slowly made his way towards the bureau. He would have to explain his injuries to Malik, but that was currently the last thing he was worried about. He was not good at emotions. He would rather keep his feelings to himself than express them, but he was fairly certain he loved the one-armed man. But if the nun's words about love were true, then he wasn't sure that he really loved him, at least not by their definition.

He yelped softly as he landed in the bureau. They should probably invest in doors that open to streets instead of sky.

"What manner of mess have you gotten yourself into this time?" Malik asked when he saw Altair limping.

"Nothing to be concerned with."

Malik insisted on untying Altair's sash anyway, and was more than a little surprised when he saw the wounds already patched.

"What is this?" Malik asked.

"I was wounded and a nun found me."

"And you let her tend to you?" Malik demanded. His words were laced with disbelief and incredulity.

"She knew I was an Assassin when she saw me. She said her god works in mysterious ways and that he was undoubtedly using me to some extent."

Malik knew that there was more to the story than that, but it wasn't his place to ask. Altair seemed confident they were in no danger, so there was really no reason for him to press further.

"Another novice came by in the hopes of seeing you. He says that you should return to Maysaf and take up the position of Grand Master." Malik mused.

"I have no use for that position, and the Brotherhood is run better with diffuse power." Altair reminded him.

"I reminded him of such. He left in a huff claiming we would eventually return."

Altair didn't respond. He instead sat down on one of the large pillows on the bureau floor with an exhausted sigh.

"You haven't seemed this depressed since Al Mualim paid more attention to Kaddar than you." Malik teased. He sat gracefully down next to his friend and waited for a response.

"She shared her views on religion with me."

"They disturbed you, no doubt. You always had a hard time understanding anything that wasn't physical."

"I was intrigued more than disturbed."

Malik stretched out on the large cushion and put his hand behind his head. He always adored watching the clouds pass over the gap in the bureau ceiling. The sky always calmed him. He waited for Altair to continue.

"I asked what her God said of love. She said something about pure and true love. Then she said something about knowing all languages of man, but still being a clanging cymbal." Altair murmured.

"Ah. It is a quote from their Bible. The "book" is called First Corinthians. The thirteenth chapter and fourth verse she quoted you."

"You know much of their religion."

"Theology intrigues me."

"Hm."

"You don't believe me?"

"I just think there is more to it than that."

"I'm not sure what to think."

Malik didn't push the matter any farther. He was, quite honestly, unsure of how to continue. They remained reclined in silence, watching the sky slowly, slowly darken.

"Do you think I'm impatient?" Altair asked.

"Yes. You always have been." Malik yawned.

"Am I boastful?"

"Not so much since Solomon's Temple and Al Mualim's betrayal."

"And kind?"

"Closer to helpful when needed, but generally apathetic."

Altair nodded and stared at nothing.

"But that doesn't mean anything." Malik pulled Altair close as he spoke.

"Oh really?"

Malik just nodded before he kissed Altair with all of the quickness the Eagle remembered the Rafik having. He was shocked, but it wasn't unpleasant. He was only disappointed that he hadn't been the one to initiate the action. His right arm pulled Malik close while his mangled left hand cupped his old friend's face.

"It doesn't mean anything because you got the quote wrong. _Love_ is patient. _Love_ is kind. _Love_ does not boast and is not proud. It says nothing of the _lover_. You do not intend on treating me like a trophy to display or a prize to be won. You do not boast it. And even when I swore my hatred for you, you continued to endure my scathing comments. Your love made you patient when you would ordinarily be just as rude and crude in return. You apologized a thousand times for the loss of my brother and arm. Love has made you kind." Malik murmured.

"You don't believe that, do you?" Altair asked.

"Every word of it, stupid Novice."

"I thought we were beyond name-calling."

"Only a novice would doubt me."

"I will prove to you that I'm no Novice." Altair growled.

Malik laughed and was out of the bureau's main room before Altair could get to his feet. He chased after Malik, but found himself with a face full of feather pillow. Malik stood against the wall with the pillow clutched in his hand, laughing at Altair's bewildered expression.

"Now who's acting like a novice?" Altair asked with a smirk. His only answer was another hit with the pillow before Malik ran out of the room again. Altair took off after him and chased him down.

He managed to tackle Malik gently to the pile of pillows in the Rafik's bedroom and he stared into Al-Sayf's dark brown eyes. He kissed Malik gently, almost nervously. He was encouraged when Malik pulled him closer. Altair smirked at the movement and tried pulling him to the bedroom with a look of lust in his amber eyes.

"Love is patient, Altair." Malik teased.

"But not the lover."


	18. Smoky Memories and Insecurities

**A/N:** I have been away from this Fandom for far too long... Things have been crazy lately, and I apologize for the lack of updates. But I bring good news. If you're in the mood for some good Assassin's Creed yaoi fanart, I'm writing for a website called XDCU[dot]com/acod where there are all manner of pictures and fanfiction. We work only on Call of Duty/Assassin's Creed yaoi on that site with more COD than AC, but the website is still young and there's plenty of time for that to change. I encourage you guys to go check it out, but be warned: **XDCU IS NSFW. **Meaning it isn't safe for work (rather graphic in a VERY sexual nature) and you might wanna look around before you get click-happy with the pictures. XD And now on to the main focus: The story. It was inspired by a few different things; namely a renewed obsession with psychological/personality disorders, the TV show _Firefly_ and the movie _Serenity_. Yes, I'm a dork. Get over it. XD

**FarieAislin:** I don't think it's too much of a stretch to see Altair as insecure. It would certainly explain why he's so show-offy, trying to keep that ego inflated 'cause he knows he's nothing without it. XD I like to think of them as being childish and immature when they're allowed to be, you know?

**Sazuka-chan:** Thanks, love. :)

**xGhostxStealth:** Haha. Thank you. I kind of like the concept of Altair being confident in everything except religion, especially considering it's kind of hinted that the Assassin's are agnostic or atheistic, just by some of the little things that were said, mostly by Al Mualim. I dunno... Maybe I read into things too much? Oh yes... Desmond is whining in this one again. XD

**dragonlover131313:** Haha. Thank you so much. It's a bit of a curse, really. Part of the reason it tends to take me forever to concoct an update is because I like to get into the mindset of the character I'm working in, and if I don't feel I'm appropriately in the mindset, I'll quit it until I feel I'm doing the character justice. I dunno... Maybe I'm just slowly going crazy. XP Haha. But really. I like trying to keep to character as much as possible. Makes the whole thing seem more authentic.

**Sodafly:** If you do draw a picture, I'd like to see it. :D I seriously get happy to the point of near hyperventilation when I find out I've actually inspired someone. No. I'm serious. I do. O_O lol

**Ranchdressing:** Thank you dear. :)

**Missjulia Miriam:** I've always enjoyed picking religion apart, looking at similarities and differences... But I'm glad you liked it. I rather enjoy thinking about Altair having no problem with anything physical, but beating himself up over the limitless possibilities of the metaphysical. Maybe that makes me a cynical sadist or something. XD

**XxCapturedtheLightxX:** Ah. LUST wasn't my favorite Lemon once it was finished. Just lacked a certain amount of magical-ness I suppose... I dunno. I criticize myself a lot. XD

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Thanks, dear. I try my damndest to keep everyone in character, and I'm glad it seems to be paying off.

**Laughing Bandit D Royale: **Yes, love is picky and free. Seems to enjoy being a pain in the ass because it always seems to choose someone that makes you question... Or maybe I just fell in love with the wrong person(s). XD

* * *

Waking up alone was nothing new. There was nothing unusual or uncommon about waking up in a room devoid of any other life. It was new, however, to remember going to bed with someone and waking up to find them gone.

"I didn't take you for the hit-and-run type." Desmond mumbled around a cigarette. He'd stopped smoking years ago when he realized it was difficult to play bartender when you're hurting for a smoke. He'd picked the habit back up when he was on the run.

"I didn't _run_ anywhere. I went to the kitchen to get something to eat and noticed that there wasn't much in the refrigerator except a few odd pieces of fruit, half a bag of carrots, and a twelve-pack of Pepsi. I'm at the grocery store."

Desmond exhaled and watched his smoke ring expand outwards until it was little more than a shady blot, eventually dissipating completely. He didn't say anything for a few moments. He simply smoked and looked out the window of the small bedroom he'd been given. Rebecca and Lucy were running across the country rather openly, leading Abstergo as far from Desmond as possible. Shaun had demanded he stay behind to keep Desmond out of trouble, though everyone knew there was more to it than that. The girls had been gone for only a week when Shaun made his first move, and things had moved rapidly from there.

"It's not like I'm going anywhere, Desmond. You have my favorite jacket still on the bedpost." Shaun chuckled. Desmond walked crushed his cigarette out on the windowsill, walked away from the window and lifted the black wool peacoat from where it had been precariously draped over one of the posts at the foot of the bed. He caught a faint whiff of Shaun's cologne and, in a very "girlish" manner, pulled the jacket on, buried his face in the lapels, and inhaled deeply. Something about Shaun calmed the escapee; something about him quieted the demons from centuries long gone and pulled him firmly back to the present. He was a little too considerate to be the stone-cold Malik, and a little too firmly rooted in reality to be the whimsical Leonardo. Shaun was something purely to do with the present, and that kept Desmond sane.

"Still woulda freaked me out less if you'd left a note or something." Desmond finally muttered.

"I didn't expect you to be awake so early." Shaun admitted. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out enough cash to pay for the food items he'd purchased. It wasn't much, but they weren't planning on staying in the little apartment for much longer. It would only be a few more days before they packed up their meager possessions and scurried off to a new hideout. Such was life on the run from an evil empire.

"I sound like a paranoid teenager, don't I?" Desmond asked glumly. Shaun sighed. He could tell Desmond had been smoking, could tell it in the tone of his voice. Shaun didn't like that Desmond smoked, didn't like that the Assassin was shortening his life voluntarily, but there was something about the way the smoke smelled on Desmond's skin that drove the Archivist absolutely _insane_ with lust and desire and any number of other things that he couldn't control.

"Not really." Shaun replied. He shifted the weight of the bag hanging from his left wrist, while he used his left shoulder to sandwich the phone to his ear so his right hand was free to reach for his car keys.

"You think that maybe we could make our next safe house someplace with a view?" Desmond asked. He walked back over to the window and opened it so he could brush the ash from his cigarette outside.

"I was thinking we could go to Europe next week." Shaun smiled.

"What part of Europe?"

"Wales. Ireland. Scotland. Pick a place."

"England doesn't make the list?" Desmond joked.

"Too many familiar faces to be safe in England. But Wales? No one I know but friends in Wales." Shaun chuckled.

"Do me a favor?"

"Depends on what it is." Shaun said as he fastened his seat belt and started the car.

"Get here quick. I don't like the thought of you being out there on your own while we're on the run." Desmond admitted.

"I'll be there in five minutes. You're starting to get paranoid." Shaun huffed.

"Can you blame me?"

Shaun admitted that he would be hard-pressed to find reason for blame. Their lives were simply too danger-fraught to avoid the paranoia. The problem with this paranoia that it was too well-founded; The problem was that the enemies they saw at every corner were really there. And even worse than that, it was nearly impossible to tell the friends from the foes, so adept were their enemies at staying hidden from sight.

"You heard from the girls lately?" Desmond changed the subject quickly.

"Not since Thursday."

"Where were they headed when you spoke to them last?"

"New Mexico, I think. Can never tell with those two. They once told me they'd meet me in San Fransisco and _after_ I'd landed in California, they told me there had been a change in plans and that they were in Honolulu."

"That sounds like something Rebecca would do. And Lucy would go along with it, just to keep Becca from whining." Desmond laughed.

"I will never know how Rebecca knows how to get what she wants so easily. And it's not just from Lucy, either."

"Ha. Don't think I haven't noticed. It just seems like it's just somehow _wrong_ to say no to her. And you aren't immune to her charm, so don't start with that."

"I never claimed to be."

Desmond took another drag from his cigarette and sighed. He was all the way down to the filter.

"Don't figure you thought to pick up more cigarettes, did you?" He sighed.

"You really shouldn't smoke."

"Everyone's got their vices, Shaun."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Sounding all bitter and self-pitying. You're like some challenged cross between Altair and Ezio."

"Jealous?"

"Not in the slightest."

There was a thud from the other side of the phone and Shaun called Desmond's name once, twice, three times, and with no response. He could feel the fear and hysteria beginning to rise as he practically screamed Desmond's name. There was no response for thirty of the most agonizing and slow seconds of Shaun's life that were spent contemplating if he should go back to the safe house and risk falling victim to whatever Desmond was experiencing and going somewhere else in the hopes that, if Desmond had, in fact, been captured, he might be able to break him out again.

"Please tell me you bough aspirin." Desmond finally groaned.

"What happened?" Shaun demanded.

"Goddamn fucking Bleeding Effect bullshit. Motherfucker... It came out of nowhere. I was just standing by the window and the next thing I know, I'm standing a little too close to the edge of a cliff... I think I hit my head when I fell. Did I fall? Fuck, Shaun. I don't know what's going on with me. I don't... I'm on the fucking floor and my head and left shoulder are killing me and I don't know how I ended up down here or how I ended up hurt. Fuck." Desmond leaned against the wall and tried to remember what happened. What had they been talking about before?

"I'll be there in a minute. Just stay on the floor. If it happens again, you might not catch yourself when you fall."

This was the reason Shaun was afraid to leave Desmond alone, even for a minute. He was perfectly capable of caring for himself when he was lucid. The problem came when Desmond began to hallucinate, began seeing things that weren't really there or things that could only have happened centuries before his great-grandparents were born. He couldn't tell Desmond how scared he was that one of these days, the Assassin would fall into the 12th century and not come back from it. He couldn't tell Desmond how devastated he would be if he were lost to stolen memories of Renaissance Italy. But those were the risks. Shaun had spent so much time trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and Desmond, but it hadn't worked, not in the slightest. In fact, Desmond seemed to find his scathing wit and sarcasm to be _endearing qualities_. It seemed to be one of those things that Shaun simply couldn't get away from. At first, he had genuinely seen Desmond as a liability, someone who was going to be more trouble than they were worth. He had ended up feeling addicted to being Desmond's saving grace. He was the one who could decode the messages left by Subject Sixteen, and he was the one who could logically explain everything Desmond was hearing and seeing without confusion.

Desmond was half-asleep leaning against the wall below then window when Shaun finally arrived.

"Took you long enough." Desmond muttered when he heard Shaun enter. The archivist knelt down next to the injured man and checked him over for signs of a concussion or anything that could possibly require medical attention beyond first aid.

"Are you satisfied that I'm fine?" Desmond swatted his lover's hands away and rose shakily to his feet. He made it as far as the bed before he sat down. He put his head in his hands and he tried to keep the headache at bay. It wasn't working. Shaun ducked out of the room and returned with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin.

"Here." Shaun took Desmond's wrist and dumped two pills in the injured man's hand. Desmond swallowed the pills with a grimace. Shaun rolled his eyes and handed Desmond the glass of water, muttering that he should have swallowed the pills _with_ the water instead of before. The Assassin waved the advice off and closed his eyes.

"What was it you saw, Des?"

"I told you what it was I saw."

"You said you saw yourself standing on the edge of a cliff and then you fell. I just think there's more to it than standing there. Talk to me, Desmond. Please?"

"I don't know where it was. All I know is that the people around me were talking in Russian. It was a sheer wall of ice. I was standing there and I was torn between throwing myself down the chasm to land on the icy rocks below and turning around and drawing as much attention to myself as possible. I just wanted to die. I... I knew that wasn't me talking and I tried moving away from the window and I... I don't know what happened. I just remember hitting the floor. That seemed to jolt me out of it. It scared me, Shaun." Desmond admitted.

"Do they seem to be getting better at all? You haven't been hooked up to an Animus in weeks. Have you noticed _any_ change at all?"

"They aren't as frequent. But that doesn't make them any less terrifying."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Desmond shook his head and lit another cigarette. He couldn't get the cold bite of nonexistent snow out of his blood. He held the smoke for as long as he could and he rubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the foreign thoughts that were etched there. He could feel the smoke soaking into his hair and into his skin, the harsh heat of it all blowing away what was lingering of the cold that wasn't his to hold. Shaun took the cigarette from his hands and put it in the white and red ceramic ashtray that sat on the bedside table. He kissed the tormented Assassin and he could taste the smoke and ash on his tongue. Desmond's arms wrapped around Shaun's neck and he drew closer. This was his corner of sanity, and it was a corner he would kill for, one he would die for.

Shaun's fingers slid through his lover's hair, hair that was no longer cropped so short it was almost not there at all. He smirked against Desmond's lips.

"You're wearing my jacket." He murmured.

"You're slow to notice it."

"More important things are happening than you choice in wardrobe, love."

"I'm tired of being crazy, Shaun."

"You aren't crazy."

"Don't. You know I'm not sane."

"I know that you're more stable mentally than anyone else that's had to undergo what you've lived through. That's something to be proud of."

"And if I lose myself in the process that's just a minor drawback, is that it?" Desmond demanded bitterly. He pulled away from Shaun and reclaimed his purloined cigarette.

"Why do you think I insisted we dismantle the Animus when we split up?"

"Because if Abstergo gets all the files we're fucked royal. I know. You told Lucy."

"Because Lucy would want you crammed in that damn machine for as much time as was possible just to see what else she could draw out of your ancestor's memories. I'm not expecting you to be strong enough to fight this on you own, Desmond."

Subject Seventeen took another pull from the cigarette and shook his head instead of offering an honest response.

"Will you use your head for once? Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?"(1)

Desmond put the cigarette back down and lunged at Shaun, pinning him against the bed and kissing him roughly.

"Just promise me you won't expect me to be Altair or Ezio or some kind of humanized weapon to end this damn war. The memories aren't mine and I shouldn't have to carry them (2). Don't expect me to be them because I can remember them."

"I promise. On one condition."

"What's the condition?"

"Slow down on the chain smoking."

"You're not asking me to stop?"

"Do you want me to."

"Not really."

"Good. If you _ever_ tell _anyone_ that I like the way smoke smells and tastes on you, I will kill you."

"How do you plan on doing that? I'm the descendant of Master Assassins. You're a historian. I'm the brawn, you're the brains."

"I can _kill you_ with my brain." (3)

Desmond laughed and kissed Shaun again. He was glad the Brit wasn't the type to "hit-and-run".

* * *

**(1):** Slightly bastardized line from one of my favorite movies "The Boondock Saints". If you haven't seen it, go watch it. ;)

**(2):** Remember when I said it was influenced by the movie _Serenity_? Yep. This is a line portion from that film. Watch it.

**(3):** Hey look! It's from the TV show _Firefly_, you know, the Sci-fi show _Serenity_ was based on? Yep. That one. Same command as before: go fucking watch it. XD


	19. CHARITY

**A/N:** I ran the Seven Deadly Sins a while back, and it was suggested that I run the Seven Holy Virtues too. So this is part one of seven: CHARITY.

**xGhostxStealth:** Yeah. My demanding footnotes tend to appear every now and then, haha. See, I don't really mind Desmond/Shaun pairings that much. The one that I always struggle with writing is Ezio/Leonardo. XP I have learned that there are certain times where I must resist the urge to type ACOD into my URL bar... Namely when I'm in the office and not alone. XD

**dragonlover131313:** Yeah, my update schedules are kinda frantic at best, heh heh... Sorry to keep you on edge like that. XD But yes, I'm am still writing for this fandom. I try to be as descriptive as possible when I write because a lot of times I think in a series of pictures or scenes (a lot to do with my background in theater XD). I seriously can't wait for the next ones to come out. Unfortunately, I completely forgot about pre-ordering Brotherhood, so I'm having to pull my mad connections at the FYE where I get all my games so make sure they don't accidentally run out like they did that one time...

**FaerieAislin:** Glad you liked it, love. :)

**RanchDressing:** Heheh. I think Desmond would have no trouble tracking Shaun down... I have seen both of The Boondock Saints movies, though I have to say that the first one is my favorite. The second one, however, is a lot more open-ended than the first, so I'm kinda hoping for a third. XD

**Laughing Bandit D Royale:** My nerdy little pleasures are Firefly, Serenity, and Red Versus Blue, heehee. I'm one of those people that refuses to smoke on principle, but I'm not necessarily opposed to the _smell_ of smoke. Sooooo... Shaun's little bit with Desmond's smoking is really kind of my bit? Haha.

**Sixteen clumsy and shy:** Everyone should watch Firefly! But... If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak. God I love Jayne... XD

* * *

Given the size of the Apple of Eden, it seemed as though it should have been far heavier than it was. Given the material it was made of, it almost looked like it should have been frigid to the touch. It was light, almost as if it were hollow and the metal paper thin, and it hummed with a dull warmth, like it had been left in someone's pocket for a few hours, no matter where it had actually been.

There was so much to learn from the Apple, but the knowledge came at a terrible price. It was indiscriminate. It showed you everything you wanted to know and pressed you to learn more. From its depths, Altair could unravel every secret existence offered up to him; he could learn how to stop the Crusades and end the Holy Wars. He could prove or disprove religions as he pleased, and all with minimal effort. It was difficult for him to halt at gathering the knowledge he needed most some days, but Malik could always sense that internal struggle, the human desire to simply know _more_ about _everything_ battling against Altair's existing knowledge that it will only end in tragedy. Malik is always there to gently pull him out of the swirling depths of the Apple, to remind him that there is still work to be done and that he can't spend all of his time lazing about like a silly Novice.

Altair would often appear physically weakened immediately after diving into what the Piece of Eden had to offer up, as if fighting against that pull of knowledge was just as much a physical one as a mental and moral one. He had very nearly delved into the truth about the miracles the Christian prophets claimed to have witnessed when Malik had physically pulled the Apple from his hands. He now sat in the middle of his study, leaning heavily against Malik's chest as his friend's remaining hand rubbed at a tense knot of muscles in his shoulder. Altair sighed at the contact and leaned a little more heavily against the former Rafik.

"Let us lock up the Apple, Altair. It isn't worth you killing yourself like this." Malik sighed.

"There's still too much to learn."

"Oh?" Malik murmured.

"There are things that the people need to know, cures for these diseases that kill thousands of people for no reason. I could stop this and help them, Malik. I just have to find what's relevant." Altair sighed.

Malik smiled and pressed a kiss behind his lover's ear. He murmured that they had already done enough for the people of their land, and were beginning to press beyond what they were capable of.

"You get farther and farther from me every time you view the secrets that sphere holds, Altair. We have done enough for the people."

"Because they can do very little for themselves. It is our obligation to help them, Malik."

Al-Sayf gently took the Apple of Eden again and put it in a small wooden box where it would be locked up and hidden away until Altair decided he needed to make use of it again.

"You would sacrifice yourself to save them from being sick?" Malik murmured.

"Just as I told the Christian King, if I am to sacrifice myself for the benefit of others, for the sake of peace, it is a sacrifice I am willing to make."

"But it is not one that I will make. I have given a great deal for our cause. I sacrificed my childhood, as all Assassins must. I sacrificed my arm, as the wounded are usually forced to. I sacrificed my brother, as is often the case when brothers join the order. I _will not_ sacrifice my lover as well." Malik purred. There was a steely undertone to his words, a hint of a threat. Altair chuckled to himself and smiled at his lover. He led his closest friend away from the fortress and down to the village itself, so that they may see the result of their work with the Apple.

The people were generally more healthy. The blacksmiths were using previously unheard of techniques when foraging their weapons, techniques that made the metal stronger, more resilient. Healers were using the plants the desert offered in new ways to keep sickness and infection at bay. More children were surviving infancy, and people were more likely to keep their limbs after suffering an injury like Malik's.

"This is why I throw myself into that nightmare. Look at the changes we've made." Altair murmured.

"I think we have done enough for the moment, and your charitable nature is not my own. I believe in being selfish every now and then, and at the moment, I could not bring myself to possibly care less about the things you have accomplished for these people, when your attention has been away from me for so long. I can name a dozen different things you can do for me, and not a single one of them involve that Apple."

Altair felt a chill creep across his skin at his lover's words and he quickly made his way back to his room, Malik in tow. He supposed that he could direct all of his charitable contributions towards a single person for a time...


	20. FAITH

**A/N:** FAITH. I was playing through AC2 and reading the Codex pages when I came up with the idea for this one, so it's almost accidental. I also kind of over-dosed on the pseudo-philosophical approach to things, but that isn't my fault either. XD

**dragonlover131313:** I think fleshing it out and expanding beyond what we're given is the duty of any good author. Well, that and researching the subject matter, but that's beside the point. XD I'm glad you enjoyed the update. This one was really inspired by the Codex pages. :)

**xGhostxStealth:** I have a tendency to wander over to ACOD when I'm at work. But it's cool 'cause I'm usually the only one here and I hate paperwork so I finish it as quickly as possible so I don't have to think about it anymore, lol. My problem with updating is that my Muse is a huge jackass and my Inspiration is... "Special". He likes to chase butterflies and all that nonsensical stuff... So between the two of them, it's sometimes difficult for me to write and get stuff out that's actually worth a damn. The opening paragraphs are always either really, really easy, or really, really hard to write. There's not really an in-between.

**Ranchdressing:** I just kind of like the idea of Malik being so sexually frustrated by Altair's insistence on helping everyone, leading to the subsequent ignoring his lover, that Malik decided to come up with any half-assed reason he could grasp to sleep with him. Maybe that makes me sick... Lol. And I completely understand life getting in the way. Trust me... Damn job... XD

**HumanElement:** Haha, thank you. I'm trying to get back into a regular updating schedule, but it's difficult at the best of times. Especially considering I'm working on three fandoms at the same time, and I'm looking into a fourth because my Muse and Inspiration are so damn ADD, I see potential story lines in everything I see. -_-; Haha. Don't worry though. I'm not done until it's listed complete. ;)

* * *

_"Nothing is true. Everything is permitted._" It was an excruciating paradox that haunted Altair day in, day out. It whispered venomous promises at night and laughed at his torment when the sun rose and he realized he hadn't slept.

If nothing was true, then, if taken literally, did that mean that even their creed was somehow a lie? But if their creed was a lie, would that then mean that everything else around them was true? That would have to mean that _nothing_ was permitted, leaving them slaves to arbitrary ideals with no free will to change their lives, be it for better or worse. Did that then make Assassins little more than idealists and dreamers? They already clung to their ideals so readily, so many were unwilling to change. They felt that Altair asking them to remain anonymous when they killed was asking them to deny their very existence to the outside world; he was called a disgrace, a blemish on the record of Assassins. One particular novice claimed he was somehow _worse_ than Al-Mualim, who at least let them keep their pride in what they were. Altair didn't even have time for his rage to settle in. It seemed the moment the words were said, Malik had been born of the shadows themselves and had a small blade pressed to the young man's throat with a hissed promise of death if he dare spoke the name of that traitor again.

Despite the loss of of his arm and his time spent locked away in a Bureau in Jerusalem, Malik was still a thousand times more capable with his weapons than nearly anyone else remaining in the fortress. Though he often found himself delegating for his old friend, stepping in and speaking for him. The truth was, he was tired of seeing that wounded, confused look in Altair's eyes. He helped Altair encode most of the pages of the journal he kept, so he knew what was on his friend's mind, he knew about the cynical shade the world seemed to have taken on, more since his experiences with the Apple than with Al-Mualim. It worried Malik, some days, to see the man he loved so completely torn apart, shaken so deeply by the questioning of ideals he had regarded as simple truths, things that had seemed so real they were never questioned, even in a jesting manner. Altair was now passing his days in a state of constant questioning, always wondering if he was making the right choice, wondering if their Creed itself was a lie, wondering where that left them.

"We don't really know the truth of anything. Truth, real and impartial truth, is completely objective. But as long as there are people, our lives will always be subjected to partiality because it will forever be subjective. Humanity is a frail thing. Maybe that is why we cannot understand the truth of the world around us." Altair muttered darkly.

Malik remained silent. He knew that, for the moment, the Master Assassin was just venting the thoughts that were too dark for him to bear alone. He'd spent many years with Altair and knew when his input was needed and when it was beneficial for him to just listen.

"We cannot truly ever answer a question because our answers are only ever fragments of the truth, because we answer subjectively, and the truth is objective. So how are we certain we are making the right choices? How can we be certain our Creed is something that we should continue to uphold? We claim to be freeing people from being enslaved by men who would bend the minds of others for their own gain. But how can we claim to be any better than they if we spend our lives training Novices to live by a Creed that, by definition, could be completely flawed and could be no better, or even worse, than the ideals we're struggling against?"

"Because we have what those others are lacking." Malik said softly. He silently approached the desk where Altair sat, surrounded by scrolls and books in all manner of languages. The former Rafik took one of his lover's ink-stained hands and turned the palm up.

"Faith, no matter what it is in, is, by nature, objective," Malik murmured as he traced the lines etched in Altair's palm, "We believe so completely that what we are doing the right thing that we would die for that. There is no room for interpretation within our motives. Our creed and our methods can be called into question. They may be considered subjective, as we choose the methods we personally believe to be the best. But our faith is completely objective. We do not base our faith on limited conditions. We do not ignore our faith until it can be proven. We do not seek out miracles before we commit ourselves entirely to our cause. The Novices who are angered by your changes are raging against the methods, not the cause. Their faith in our ways are so unshakable. Where the Templars rely on their miracles and their proof to keep the faith alive, we have it unconditionally. When all others lost their faith in our order because of Al-Mualim's corruption, you remained faithful in the righteousness of what we do. That should be a comfort to you, and serves to prove that we are right." Malik redirected his gaze to Altair's face and saw the Eagle regarding him with a familiar shrewd gaze.

"You make it seem as if the answer were so obvious I should be ashamed for not seeing it sooner." Altair almost smiled.

"In all of my years, I never imagined having such a fool for a lover." Malik teased.

"Do you think you can tolerate my foolishness long enough to teach me what it is to accept faith as an answer to all of life's mysteries?"

"I suppose so."


	21. FORTITUDE

**A/N:** FORTITUDE. **_SPOILER ALERT!_** This one contains a light, not-quite spoiler from Brotherhood, and it only really spoils the Christina missions (which aren't technically important to the progression of the story). There are side memory sequences within the game where you can see what happens between Ezio and Christina after the deaths of his father and brothers. For those of you who haven't beaten the game to unlock the final Christina memory, it's set right before Ezio crashes the Doge's party at Carnivale during Assassin's Creed II. Leonardo sees Ezio and tells him that he saw Christina dancing with her new husband. Ezio lures her away and kisses her without telling her who he is. She thinks it's her husband, and gets pissed when she finds out it isn't and tells Ezio she _never_ wants to see him again. D: This is also kinda one-sided Leonardo/Ezio. :/

**Human Element:** :D Keeping Malik and Altair in character is getting easier. Maybe because I can relate. :P

**xGhostxStealth:** If I were in charge of Assassin's Creed, the damned cliff-hanger endings wouldn't be so infuriating. And yes. Plenty of smexi bureau scenes. :D

**Ranchdressing:** Ahaha! Poor Altair is going senile early. XD

**Laughing Bandit D Royale:** Heroes are always problematic... That's why it's nice for them to have an appropriately selfish lover to pull them back together. :3 I was really kinda going for an "Occam's Razor"-style approach for FAITH in that we should always tend towards the simplest solutions offered by a theory. Which Malik very artfully explained. :)

**xStealthxSniperx:** Yes, dear. I'm still on DeviantArt, I just don't update there very often (except for journal entries from time to time) and I "favorite" a lot of inspiring works/reference points for OC's and the ilk. If you're still interested, the username is ADeWeHi. :P I'm glad you like the story so far.

* * *

To say Ezio was a man of determination, strength and fortitude was a gross understatement. When his father and brothers had been killed, he waited only long enough for the guards to lose his trail before stealing their bodies away from the men who would dump them unceremoniously into the river with no rights. When Vieri had threatened his mother and sister on their way to Montereggioni, he had stood against him and all his men with an unflinching determination to protect his family. He had killed so many men in his quest to first avenge his murdered kin, and then to save the free will of humanity. He had been stabbed himself, hit with arrows, hammers, rapiers. He had stumbled to Leonardo's workshop in the early hours of the morning, collapsing in a bloody heap on whatever bit of furniture or floor wasn't covered with paper or invention. Leonardo would patch him up and the Assassin would endure the pain without a complaint.

But when he had kissed Christina, when he had lured her away with the desperate intent on touching her one final time, when she had turned on him viciously and told him to never find her again, that he had missed his chance, something had cracked and broken. Ezio had done as he set out to do and he had returned to Leonardo's workshop instead of going to his uncle's villa for some sleep.

"Am I such a monster?" He'd asked.

Here was a man who could stand up to armies of men armed with archaic technology and not flinch in the face of what anyone else would consider certain death, who had been shaken by the words of a woman. He sat in Leonardo's chair for several days, moving only when necessary and speaking only occasionally. He stared at nothing, alternating between looking bitter to furious to disenchanted to crestfallen to annoyed... Leonardo frequently sketched the moody Assassin, though he was irritated that he could do nothing to help his friend.

Ezio was slouched in his chair, staring at the stone floor. He imagined himself so strong, and yet here he stood without a leg to stand on. Reduced to this by the words of a scorned woman. He spoke little, ate less, and slept less than even that. Leonardo recognized the scowl on his friend's face, and realized it was one of irritation and bitterness with no room for anything else. The lunch he'd made for the Assassin remained exactly where he'd left it a few hours previous and he sighed.

"Are you planning on telling me what has you so bothered?" Leonardo asked. It was the same question he'd asked several times since the Carnivale, and he'd never received a straight answer, or even the same answer two days in a row, for that matter. Ezio looked up at him and Leonardo could see him trying to formulate a lie before eventually giving up.

"How am I supposed to save the world and stop the Templars if I can't even handle the harsh words from a bitter woman's sharp tongue?"

Leonardo laughed and told him that if he ever tired of being an Assassin, he could certainly make a life as a poet. Ezio cursed at him and lapsed once more into silence, leaving his oldest friend to feel very much ashamed of his comment.

"Tell me why you believe Christina's comment effects you as an Assassin." Leonardo demanded gently.

"I have spent a great deal of time tracing my Assassin's blood back as far as I can and have found a relation to Altair Ibn La-Ahad, the same Assassin who saved the world from Templar control in 1191. I am descended from the man heralded as one of the greatest Assassins to ever grace our order, and I cannot bring myself to recover from something so simple as rejection." Ezio growled.

"Did you never read those Codex pages after you brought them to me for translation? Altair was very much in love with a woman, only to find her kidnapped by Templars and killed. In a fit of rage he murdered every one of them. I've spent a bit of time reading between the lines and doing a little research of my own and I discovered a secondary Codex corresponding to Altair's. It was written by his, erm, _close friend_ Malik who explains that after finding the woman he loved dead, Altair fell into a fit of depression and refused to leave his rooms for days at a time. Then he decided he found love again, this time with a reformed Templar woman who bore him a son. When Altair told her he was to be trained as an Assassin, she disappeared in the night, telling him that everything he stood for was a lie and the only reason she would not betray their location was because her son was still there. After her betrayal, it took several weeks to convince him to return to his duties. Altair was every bit human as you or I." Leonardo informed him.

Ezio's mood didn't brighten and he said, "But all of that happened _after_ he had saved the world. I have accomplished nothing, and am already bitter and questioning."

"So?"

"So? So I have an assignment to complete and I cannot help thinking that if I am too weak to tolerate Christina's dismissal then I cannot be strong enough to retrieve the Apple, protect our interests against the Templars, and avenge my family!" Ezio yelled. Leonardo stepped back and worked to conceal his smile. Ezio's voice was filled with anger, rage, insecurity, and the most emotion he had shown since his encounter with his former lover at the Carnivale. Leonardo was not a stupid man, and he knew that this was the first step in fixing the hurt Christina had caused.

"What difference does the timing make? Falling in love does not make you a poor Assassin, and being hurt over losing that love does not make you useless. You think no less of Altair, do you?"

"There is a difference."

"I see none."

Ezio struggled for a comeback, but eventually gave up and slouched back into his chair once more. He scowled at the floor and Leonardo took a seat beside him.

"You think no differently of Altair for being human and falling prey to his emotions. Why think less of yourself? Assassins are not expected to be fortuitous in all aspects of their lives. This is clearly indicated in the responses of the man clearly regarded to be the greatest member of your order."

"What are you saying?" Ezio asked after a moment.

"I am saying that you are perfectly strong enough to take down the Templars and that your constitution in these matters of mankind are _not_ reflected in your constitutions in the ways of relationship and emotion. Strong in the things that matter, Ezio, not in all things."

The next morning, Ezio's seat was abandoned, and in his place was a lengthy note both thanking the artist for his patience and apologizing for the Assassin's petulance, along a bottle of Leonardo's favorite wine. The inventor neatly tucked the letter away and put the bottle of wine into his cellar to be opened on a special occasion and returned to his inventing. Because just as Ezio had his unfailing strength in fighting enemies of free will, Leonardo had his strength in expertly handling his emotions.


	22. HOPE

**A/N:** HOPE. This is a shorter one, but I think it conveys the message fairly well. Little bit of Desmond/Shaun fluff, but I think we could use it. :)

**dragonlover131313:** I'm glad you enjoyed it so much, thought I felt like I was kind of grasping at the theme on that one. D:

**KatChampagne:** Ahhh these are all so much fun to write, I'll admit. :3 And I wouldn't be surprised if there were the case that Malik's mother named him something beautiful and he was like, "NO! WILL NOT BE THAT!" and Altair is just, "Ffffttssfstsss... Ohhhhh Summerrrrrrrrr! Fffsssts..." Hee hee. It broke my heart to kill Shaun too, but it just wouldn't leave me along.

**Ranchdressing:** Yeahhh, Leo needs a hug now. But he helped Ezio get over his stupidness, and he's the type of guy to take that as a consolation of sorts. :P And Ezio would definitely murder the hell out of someone gettin' too close to his Leo. ;D

**xGhostxStealth:** Ubisoft really went through a lot of trouble to draw so many parallels between all of their characters, and I like to think they did it for a reason; just not the reasons I'm using it for. Emotions are always delicate things, even when they aren't normally concealed and hidden and ignored. If you try to show the emotions "too clearly", they just seem forced and grotesque. But I'm glad I managed to pull off the concept of Ezio's fortitude.

**JuxtaposedAlbatross:** I'm glad you're enjoying the series, dear. :D

* * *

I've been nocturnal for as long as I can remember, so leaving the safety of the Sanctuary only at night isn't too troublesome, though seeing only tiny patches of stolen sunlight within the Villa is enough to be irritating. I've managed to sneak out of the Animus early and I stand outside in the fading sunlight. The fresh air is a wonderful change from the stale, musty air inside. Unfortunately, it still smells and feels so much like how I remember it... I scold myself, try to make the correction that _Ezio_ knew Italian weather, and this is my first real experience with it.

"You seem miffed."

I don't turn to face Shaun, and I'm really not that surprised to see he's here. I heard him coming up from the sanctuary, his shoes making a rather distinct sound as he came up from the Sanctuary.

"I'm not sure that 'miffed' is the right word." I chuckle. He walks forward and stands beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"So what is then?"

"Fucked up, maybe?" I watch him from the corner of my eye as he pushes his glasses up.

"We're getting close to the Apple. We just need a little more time. It won't be long and you'll be out of the Animus for good."

"That's not quite what has me concerned."

"Then what is?"

"I don't know that I can do this." I growl. The sky leading to the horizon grows darker as the sun sinks out of view. Shaun remains silent, something I'm grateful for. I struggle for the words to explain the thoughts racing through my head, to tell him the things I'm thinking, and tell him coherently. There are just too many things to think out, things that I can only understand on a primal and emotional level, things that I'm not so sure are really _my_ thoughts and worries.

The sun itself disappears completely, leaving the horizon to darken gradually. Shaun takes my hand and leads me away from the Villa. I don't ask him where we're going or why. I trust him completely. He doesn't say anything as we slowly make our way down and away from the overgrown ruins of what was once the most beautiful home in Tuscany. He leads me to a section of fence surrounding the wall that's come loose and we slip between the sections and up the stairs to the wall and the battlements. He takes me to one particular tower at the back of the former Assassin City and we're met with ladders and scaffolds where Montereggioni was being preserved. We climb to the top of the tower and sit in one of the cut-out windows. Ezio liked to come here to think, liked to go anywhere above ground-level. Shaun takes my hand again and I'm in the present again. He's not a very emotional person, and neither am I, but we both know I need this simple contact.

"We're running out of time and I don't feel we're any closer to the Apple than when we started. I don't know how many more memories I'm going to have to go through before we can find where he hid the damn thing. And that's assuming it still works! We're running into this blind, trying to convince ourselves that this thing can really help stop the end of the world as we know it." I say bitterly. Shaun doesn't say anything for a moment.

"Things have been getting progressively worse the world over for the past few years. You've noticed it just as much as I have. For a long time now the only thing anyone in our order has had is hope. We don't try to start families because it's too dangerous with the Templars in a place of such obvious power. We don't have day jobs where the stress stops when we get home. Few of us have stable cover that allow us to live in one place for longer than a few months. So what do we have? Hope."

"Hope that someone is just going to miraculously find the one thing we're looking for? And that it's going to be in working condition after how many goddamn centuries?"

"Abstergo is not half so stupid as we would like to think. They found an artifact of interest, found who had it last, and traced that ancestry all the way back to you. The second Lucy caught wind of what was going on, she told everyone. Just the fact that two of the greatest Assassins to ever save the planet were distantly related was enough for us to hope that the future could repeat itself. Finding that those two Assassins have another descendant who can use their memories to find the artifact and save our free will was more than we could have asked for." He murmurs.

I know I'm being harsh and bitter and difficult, but the fate of the world is my responsibility and I have to sift through hundreds of years of memories in the hopes of finding a single object that may or may not save everyone. If we win, it will because the Assassins have trained and utilized every available artifact to trump the Templars. If we lose, it will be because I failed to do what I needed to do to aid our efforts.

Neither of us say anything for a few long minutes and the wind picks up again. I close my eyes and listen to the way it whispers over the bricks and carries the fresh smell of the fields lost to the horizon. It hasn't changed in five hundred years and I feel the ghost of a memory stirred by the familiarity and there is a faint spark of Ezio's courage and determination flickering at the back of my mind. I focus on his memory and I hear the nonexistent cries of the merchants in stalls long since closed and converted as ghosts of the city fill my mind. It was so much more beautiful before, back when Ezio was the prince of an Assassin's castle... I murmur as much to Shaun and he doesn't say anything for a long moment.

"You just need to have a little hope. I always knew Americans were dense, but you are going all out." He smiles. His voice alone is enough to make the distant past become a stolen memory again and I open my eyes.

"How am I going all out to be dense?" I ask.

"You're completely hopeless. You're acting like we're running at legions of gods and immortals." He scoffs.

"We may as well be."

"No. We're running at legions of men who have the funding to be more open in their attacks."

I don't have a response for that, so I stay silent.

"You just need a little hope. Hopelessness isn't your color and we're running out of shades of gray to hide in."

I laugh at his metaphors, but agree with him nonetheless. I know that he has a point, but I can't wrap my head around it, not now, not when my head is swimming and I'm seeing ghosts of people long dead and missing people I've never known.

"Do you trust me, Desmond?" He asks. I look at him for a moment, and then nod.

"Then trust me when I say I have hope enough for both of us. We'll find the Apple."

"It's easier to live as Altair and Ezio. Altair was following orders and fighting to get his pride and dignity back in shape. Ezio was doing it for the honor of his family. They had a definitive goal, one that they knew they could eventually attain if they just tried hard enough and killed all the people on a list. I don't have a list of names or a definitive goal. I just have 'find a metal ball, save world'."

"Then how about we narrow it down? You get through the memories and find where Ezio hid the Apple, and then we go after these men." Shaun pulls a folded bit of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. It's a list of names, everyone involved in the Animus project, down the the monkeys who knocked me out at home and drug me to Abstergo.

"You just happened to be carrying this around?" I tease.

"I've got hope to keep me going. You've always been an idiot in need of something tangible to go on."

I carefully refold the list along the seams and tuck it in my pocket.

"So you're hoping that we find this thing in time?"

"Incessantly."

"You have hope that _I_ will save us?"

"Of course."

I smile and move closer to Shaun marginally. He smiles at me and I give in to the urge to kiss him. I feel his smile grow against my lips and I feel a sudden surge of hope that I will find the Apple in time, if only for Shaun's sake.

He gives in to one of his moments of sentimentality and rests his head on my shoulder. I kiss the top of his head in my own uncharacteristic show of affection. The wind whispers over the bricks and it's a calming sound like nothing I've ever heard, carrying the refreshingly unfamiliar scent of distant vineyards Altiar had his reasons to fight, and Ezio his, this moment and all the moments like it will be mine. Because one man's hope can be his lover's strength.


	23. JUSTICE

**A/N:** JUSTICE. Working with Ezio again. He grew on me a little during the Brotherhood campaign... :P Kind of abstract thoughts, but it fits my mindset and serious lack of sleep at the moment.

**dragonlover131313:** Thank you dear. I'm trying to work on my perspectives a bit, mostly for the experience. Partly because I like to think how they're thinking. :)

**_DISCLAIMER:_** I own nothing. Characters are not mine, Assassin's Creed storyline is not mine. I wish I did own them. Because then the ending to Brotherhood wouldn't have been so rage-inducing. I would also probably make Altair the main character in all of them, plus Shaun and Desmond. So I guess if you're an Ezio fan you should be so glad Ubisoft owns them. XD

* * *

To do justice is to do what is right for more than just yourself. Justice is fairness and the conformity to that principle. I would not put it by evil men to attack me, but that is to be expected, given my new profession. But these citizens of Italy should not have to fear those around them for the same reasons that I do. They shuld not wake up in the morning and wonder if this is the day they will be robbed, relieved of their possessions and left to die in the streets without a wary glance back. But more than that, they should not be forced to watch their entire world be rewritten by men who would kill their own families, men who could kill innocent children like Petruccio without any loss of sleep, and do it all for a little more control over their fellow man.

The entire basis of humanity is formed around our free will. It is what makes the forced labor of a slave so appalling. It is what made the ancient Roman societies with their ability to pick and choose their fate through the popular vote of Democracy so alluring. (1) To have that stripped would make us nothing more than beasts of burden, hurrying to do our master's bidding with no thought of why we are working so hard for no reward. The Templars would use the Pieces of Eden to destroy our lives to better their own. There is no justice or fairness in a small group of men enslaving the men around them. They tore away Leonardo's patronage and left him with nothing before forcing him to become a slave to construct their futuristic war machines.

I look out over Rome from my vantage point well above the streets and watch the people move from place to place; church to market, market to home... What would the doctor with his healing cart be if the Templars reformed the world in the image of something they could control? Would he be testing new medicines with deadly consequences on innocent people for the benefit of the Templar order? Would he be little more than another man in line for whatever scraps the Templars choose to throw at their forced servants?

I rise from my perch and walk to the end of the narrow beam and dive towards a cart of pale pink flowers below. Most men would die from this fall. Most men do not trust themselves enough to relax in a way that would prevent injuries. (2) I calmly exit the cart and walk through the streets, past merchants I put back into business, past aqueducts I paid to fix... Were I a corrupt man, Rome would bow before me for all I have done. But I leave such heady power for the Templars to long for.

I feel their eyes on me as I walk through the streets, the eyes of men who would see me dead for impeding their climb to power. But I cannot let their injustices fall on the innocents of this city, or any city. Mine are mercy killings; merciful not for the people I kill, but for those they would ruin. But it would not be fair to allow these people to become distant shadows of themselves. There is no place in a just world for these men who would ruin existence for an entire species of people. Great minds of men would be either used or discarded and brilliant men like Leonardo would be turned into little more than pack horses.

Leonardo asks me often about my work and I answer what questions I can. But there are some things I do not feel he would be safe knowing. He mostly asks about my guilt when I kill so many men through my missions, and even the missions of the Assassins I have trained from petty sword-swingers fighting against personal injustices. I remind him that were it not for me, things would be so much worse. Had I not fought against the Templar order, fought and nearly died to protect the Apple, I do not doubt the Templars would already own the world in its entirety and mankind would be none the wiser for it.

There is no justice in laying down arms because you are out numbered and you have your personal interests at heart. There is no justice in seeing a crime you can stop and refusing to stop it. The two great evils are the evil men, and the good men who do not stop them. There is no fairness in dooming those around you to suffer simply because the fight is not yours directly. There is nothing for the men who must have something personal at stake to fight.

I pull my cape over my left arm, covering my sword as I walk. There are few who will bother me, but I would rather avoid those few. Today is not a day I would like to see ruined by needless violence. People brush by me, arms, fingers, hands, skirting the cape as they move, unaware of the danger just beneath the cloth, unaware that I have killed so many people for their sake. And without having ever met them. Would the public opinion change if they knew the truth? Or would it be discounted as heresy and slander? I am not sure which would be worse. But I do know that ours is a war best fought in silence. The people should not be so burdened by our war, torn between the simple justice of free will and the alluring comforts of conformity.

It is a fine line that must be walked by Assassins, and we are content to walk it so that the people may be protected from these men that would undo our very nature for the sake of their own fragile concepts of utopia. We must uphold these concepts of justice, protecting the people from threats they encounter every day, but do not recognize them for what they are. They do not realize how well-protected they are, and from adversaries far worse than the petty thief eyeing the crowds so watchfully. They have more than their purses at stake, and do not realize their entire existence as it stands is in jeopardy of simply disappearing. They do not know how many innocent people have died in the name of an artifact they have never even heard of. They do not know that we fight to bring justice to men that would otherwise go unpunished for their part in a war so clandestine that those not involved directly have no knowledge of it.

I navigate the winding Roman streets and eventually end up in a very familiar home sitting on a very familiar chair.

"Still wearing that hideous mess of fur and steel?" Leonardo teases. I smile at him as he enters the room. There is paint on his hands, a smudge of pale green on his jaw, and what may be yellow in his hair.

"When will you let me create more practical armor for you?" He asks.

"One of these days, Leonardo, I will indulge you that." I promise.

"You have been hiding in the roof tops again." He picks the crushed petal of a pale pink flower from between armor plates and turns it over in his fingers for a moment before letting it drift gracefully to the floor.

"I needed time to think." I answer him honestly.

"What about?"

"All manner of things."

He kisses my cheek and returns to his painting. Any world that would rob Leonardo of his beautiful talent is an unjust world, and one that I will not allow to exist.


	24. PRUDENCE

**A/N:** PRUDENCE. Yes, it's taken forever. I've been fighting through some serious writer's block on this fandom, plus things with the brothers have been ridiculous. Jon's baby was born almost a month ahead of schedule, Red just got deployed, and Vince just got married. So, yeah.

**xGhostxStealth: **I wish I owned Assassin's Creed too! Mmm, so much delicious sexings would occur. P: I'm glad you liked the deeper look, dear. I love reading between the lines. ^_^

**Naomi Hansen: **Danke! I'm glad you've been enjoying the one-shots so far. I didn't really like the idea of killing Shaun either, but it was one of those things that just kind of happened. I'm glad that you're liking even the angsty bits. :)

**bbb136: **I really enjoy challenging what people think they know by asking them questions that they haven't asked themselves. I like looking into theology, philosophy and psychology from a strictly objective point of view. I'm glad you've been enjoying them. :)

**awesomehatyougotthere:** :D I love Poets of the Fall. Just saying. P: I hope you enjoyed the last 12 as much as you enjoyed the first 11. ^.^

**Anonyhat:** Glad they were enjoyable. :)

* * *

If there was one lesson Altair had learned better than any other after the disaster at Solomon's Temple and the initial near-loss of the Apple of Eden, it was that he desperately needed to work on his prudence. More than his pride or his egotism, his complete disregard to danger jeopardized the mission, killed Kaddar, maimed Malik. It was something so stupid as ignoring the fact that his instincts were screaming about the danger and rushing into things headlong that nearly ended the human race. There were other times, times when prudence was similarly forgotten entirely, times before the incident at Solomon's Temple. Those were moments that lead him to be in close contact with various guards in the cities, sent him crawling to Bureaus with numerous wounds, bleeding, battered, almost too weak to stand on his own. How had he never seen the correlation?

Malik claimed that the stupidity and complete disregard had always been one of his "less-charming" attributes, which Altair knew to mean it was one of the things that drove Malik completely and relentlessly crazy without fail. So he supposed learning his lesson of prudence and humility had been good for more than just himself. Of course, attempts at mentioning this always ended the same way; Malik would accuse him of being selfish, of being a fool and an idiot and a number of other things, and Altair would bear them in silence with the slightest hint of a smile.

What mattered, Altair supposed, was that he'd learned his lesson, and he was determined to make sure he never had to learn it again. He typically took more time in handing out missions, and made it perfectly clear to everyone, Novices and Assassin's alike, that no contract was to be completed unless the information could be verified and re-verified and proven to be true. He had seen several of his brothers killed by false information or was no longer valid. He made sure the Novices were trained in information verification, made sure they understood they were to learn as much as they could about their subject from as many different places as possible. A single merchant might be siding with your target and may have the rest of the merchants terrified into providing only false information. But the merchant would not hold much sway with the blacksmith, who would not so readily influence the apothecary, who stood little chance of spooking the farmer. More sources correlating the same facts meant there was less room for false information to grow. Altair would not let his Assassins die for something so stupid as trusting a single source far too much.

Rather than follow Al-Mualim's misguided attempts at keeping the old and the maimed Assassins around strictly as scholars of leaders of Bureaus, Altair took those that were familiar with the cities and set them in the market districts to collect their own information from overheard conversations and to better supply the Assassins and Novices on missions. Someone not of their order might question a man in white robes asking for help in patching up vicious sword wounds, but another Assassin would take him in and patch him up. Altair had secret, secondary entrances installed in the Bureaus, at ground-level, so that those Brothers too injured to take to the rooftops would not be left on the streets to die or be captured. He organized with the scholars that frequented the cities and arranged for some of the Assassins and Novices to have rooms amongst the scholars for hiding and lodging, and the scholars were, in turn, generally protected from the bothersome guards of the cities. He created vast systems that benefited both the Brotherhood, and those they were sworn to protect.

Malik had taken to going through the many books and documents Al-Mualim had kept for his eyes only and found that the late Grand-Master Assassin had one of the highest body counts of almost any previous Assassin Grand-Master, without including the number of Assassins he'd sent to their deaths using the Apple to control their minds. Altair swore he would be remembered as the leader who kept the most Assassins safe without compromising their missions, and he strove towards the goal as if it were the only thing that mattered.

Some days, Malik was prone to wondering if this sudden prudence on Altair's part was some strange way of trying to compensate for the damage he'd done in the past. He blamed himself for so much, and was now stretching himself thin trying to save everyone.

"What we do is dangerous by nature, Altair. Even the proudest eagle knows that there is risk involved in diving after its prey. You cannot save everyone."

"But I can try."

The entire town of Masyaf was re-fortified against possible future Templar attacks and miniature fortresses were constructed beyond the walls of the Assassins Fortress for the civilians to take shelter in should the need ever arise. Altair worked tirelessly for years to implement new procedures and protocols. He would not be remembered as the man who could've reconstructed and saved the Brotherhood, but failed to do so. In his eyes, that would make him more despicable than Al-Mualim, who would destroy it outright.

Over time the Crusaders slowly began filtering home, with many of the Templars following after them. Their influence, however, remained as a dark and ugly reminder of those who would stop at nothing to control all of those around them. Within three years, Altair had almost completely reformed the Brotherhood, and their missions were being run more efficiently than ever before. He did not see the cowardice in using poison on an enemy if it meant protecting those carrying out the assassination contract. He saw no reason to utilize only the weapons they had been given, the technology passed down through the years and the generations. He saw that there was room for improvement and utilized the dark secrets of the Apple and the seemingly limitless knowledge of the numerous people working for and with the Assassins.

Despite all of this, Malik saw a steady, constant threat that Altair's new-found prudence seemed to be completely oblivious to; Malik was losing his lover to the work, and Altair was losing himself. There were times when Altiar would become so fixated on finding the solution to a problem, he would go without food or sleep, taking them only when Malik force him to. Eventually the Apple was locked away and Altair began to resemble himself again, in some ways. For all of his caution and care, Altair had so carelessly lost what it was to be the arrogant prick Malik had fallen in love with. When confronted with this information, Altair had smiled and very arrogantly claimed he believed Malik would love him regardless. Malik laughed and pulled his lover away from the office and back to their quarters. Prudence was a fine thing, yes, but only in small doses, and never in the bedroom.


	25. TEMPERANCE

**A/N:** TEMPERANCE. Desmond/Shaun here. Haven't dealt with them in a little while... Sorry for the delays. Work has been crazy and I got to spend a few long, long hours in hospital after concussing myself and having a subsequent trauma-induced seizure. -_-;

**bbb136:** I find freshly updated stories are always pleasant breaks from monotony. ^_^

**Awesomehatyougotthere:** The clever thing doesn't sound too odd. Probably because I've heard stranger adjectives used to describe what I write. XD I'm glad you're enjoying it, dear.

**thegriffin88:** Should I ever find time to really develop Leon, I definitely will give him his own story and let you know. ^_^

* * *

There were several reasons Desmond had become a bartender when he left The Farm, and chief among them was his love of alcohol. He liked being able to create something that he loved. Some people composed music, some took photographs; Desmond Miles made cocktails.

He'd never really considered himself an overly-virtuous person, but he was well aware of his limits and rarely pushed them. He'd have a drink or two if a particularly flirtatious customer bought one for him, but he had his temperance. He used to, anyway.

He always thought that your virtue got chipped at while you were building it up, that once you got it up, it was like a wall, like something that could take a hell of a beating and not crumble. He didn't realize that there would always be something previously unencountered that would test that stonewall virtue. He didn't realize that the Bleeding Effect would drive him half as crazy as it was. He always figured he'd know how to handle the hallucinations, how to figure out which reality was his. He was expecting it to play out like a movie in front of him, like something he could see for an image of Jerusalem overlapping New York. He wasn't expecting to have someone long since dead and buried crawling into his mind, infiltrating everything he looked at, tainting all he touched.

He lifted the whiskey glass to his lips again, still staring at nothing. It was strong, bitter, liquid hot. He didn't feel the burn of the alcohol, or even taste it anymore. He was trying to glare a hole into the wall across from him, and he seemed to be operating under the assumption that drinking more booze would make that task easier. He'd already worked his way through an entire bottle of expensive bourbon. That had gone down a little too smoothly, and he hadn't quite learned to hate himself before it was done, so he'd moved on to cheaper booze.

It had started off as just a shot of tequila or vodka or rum, just to shock himself back into the 21st century. Then the nightmares had started showing up. He wondered if he would be drinking so much if they _were_ just nightmares and not the god-fucking-awful memories he knew that they were. His mind wasn't just creating a collection of new and inventive ways to torture him with half-forgotten history lessons; he was thinking in Arabic as he cursed these Crusaders who were bringing their religious wars to the unwilling. These weren't things that he could ignore. He had to cling to these memories and relay them to Lucy so she could record them and give them to Rebbecca and Shaun for review, and they would question him in their own way and on their own time. He had no refuge, not even in sleep. His only out was the peaceful, empty oblivion that came with being too drunk to fucking function. There was a chance he still lived those stolen-memories-turned-nightmares, even when drunk and passed out, but he was too unaware in his inebriated state to recall them, meaning he didn't have to relive them in his sleep, or the morning after when he told them to Lucy, or in the days following when Rebbecca and Shaun interrogated him on them.

Desmond didn't jump immediately into the old alcoholic stream. He would drink himself stupid once, maybe twice a week, and only when things were unbearable and he would kill for a few hours of peace and quiet inside his own mind. They were his safe-havens from the hell he put himself through for the greater good of humanity. He was hoping that these few nights of dreamless sleep would somehow make him feel better during the waking hours, and, at first, they did.

But the Bleeding Effect gradually worsened. The ghostly visions were no longer spooky shadows he encountered when he stepped out of a particularly demanding session within the Animus, and they were no longer scary movies played out behind his eyelids when his mind was too weak to defend itself. He would start singing long-forgotten Italian lullabies while he made breakfast just before he found himself wondering why there was a strangely-clothed British man wandering through his home, acting as if it were strange for him to be speaking Arabic, his own native tongue! Then Desmond would come to his senses and realize that he had never actually learned Arabic, or that those songs he was singing had died out around the same time as da Vinci. Like a cold slap to the face, the tequila would jerk him back to the true, modern reality that he was Desmond Miles, a man kidnapped by Abstergo and saved by the Assassin's Order he spent so much time running and hiding from.

He couldn't even really remember when he had started drinking so consistently, only that it had happened, and he could only escape the visions when he was too wasted to give a fuck. He was quickly running out of alcohol, and it seemed his "friends" were growing more and more leery about purchasing more. And seeing as how he couldn't exactly walk into a liquor store himself, what with all the security cameras and all, he was stuck at their mercy.

"Planning on passing out again tonight instead of sleeping?"

Desmond didn't acknowledge the condescension in Shaun's tone, or his existence in general, really. Shaun had taken a bit of an issue with Desmond's constant drinking, claiming it was going to kill him and make him useless to them, and not necessarily in that order either. He couldn't exactly claim that he had something against people who drank, because he was known to indulge in drink himself on occasion. What he took issue with was how consistently Desmond would get wasted and and stare at nothing and respond to nothing, effectively dead, but still somehow still alive. He would never admit to anyone, even himself, that he cared enough about Desmond to get concerned for the escaped Assassin's well-being, but it eventually became something he couldn't very well ignore. He made all brands of excuses for his worrying and his concerned behavior, claiming that it was all in the name of productivity, but he had a feeling he was only fooling himself, and he wasn't even doing that very well.

For all of his griping and complaining, Shaun knew that he would find an excuse to stay awake until Desmond passed out, and then he would take the annoying fool to his room and put him to bed, bitching all the while, about how stupid he was to think they gave a damn about his alcoholism.

"I can't remember what it was like before this," Desmond said lowly, voice cracking.

"What?" Shaun wasn't expecting to get an answer from Miles, as he rarely did.

"I can't remember a time before Abstergo anymore. I know that I lived. I know there was The Farm in the middle of nowhere and routines and schedules and training, and I know there was a bar I worked at, and a motorcycle I loved, but it all feels like a fucking dream, like something I made up in my head to get away from all of the rest of it. You wanna know why I'm such a shit conversationalist? Because I'm never sure which language I should be using. I _forget_ words in English, Hastings, completely blank out on what I'm trying to say. No big deal, happens to everyone. The problem is that my fucking brain starts suggesting synonyms in Arabic, and then Italian, and then Greek, or Latin, Spanish, French, Chinese..." His hand tightened around the glass of whiskey and he drank from it again.

"The Bleeding Effect isn't like listening to a rock radio station and passing through a bad-reception-bubble and finding yourself listening to off-color rap music. You know that you like rock and the rap isn't yours and you can separate the two. It's like listening to rock and finding yourself listening to rap, but you can't remember which one you actually like. Then you aren't sure if you should park the car and fix the radio, wait for the rock to come back, fuck with the knobs until you find the rap station, or figure out who fucked with your car and got rid of the Mozart CDs, because you can't remember if you like a brand of music or if you're confusing yourself with a grandparent. My whole life is turning into one fucked up car-ride, and I'm losing sight of more than just the radio stations. I don't remember where I'm driving to or where I'm driving from. It feels like everything I have ever known is a dream I stole from other people."

"And the alcohol does what?" Shaun wanted the words to be sneering, jabbing, offensive, but found they carried no weight and fell far short of his lofty expectations.

"While I'm awake? Nothing. But if I pass out remembering I'm Desmond Miles and end up too drunk to dream, I wake up remembering I'm Desmond Miles until the next time I start seeing places I've never heard of." The way he refilled his glass with whiskey told Shaun that he was done talking, but the way he stared at the ring finger on his left hand told him that it might not have been Desmond drinking at that moment. With a gritting of his teeth, Shaun grabbed a glass and poured some whiskey into it before taking a seat next to Desmond. The former bartender hardly glanced at him.

"Have you considered finding another way to shock yourself back into the twenty-first century that doesn't include drinking yourself to liver-death?"

"Like what? Beating my head against advanced technology? I'd end up in a coma and Rebbecca's Animus 2.0 would be demolished in a very unforgiving way," Desmond said sarcastically.

Shaun muttered something about being completely unappreciated and sipped at the alcohol in his glass. He tried to hide his wince as it burned his throat, but he wasn't as good at concealing it as he thought, if Desmond's smug smirk was anything to go by.

"Why not a journal?"

"What?" Desmond frowned at Shaun, both startled by the suggestion and the fact that the historian was still there and alive for how quiet he was being.

"Keep a journal or a scrapbook or something, all your intimate memories that you wouldn't have access to if it weren't you."

"I don't have the patience for that."

Shaun started drinking again and eventually shoved his glass away.

"Would you stop drinking if you could find another way to separate yourself from all of them?"

"In a goddamned heartbeat," Desmond nodded.

"Hn."

"Why? What are you planning, Hastings?"

Shaun took the near-empty glass from Desmond's hand and slid off of the chair he was sitting on, taking Desmond's hand and leading him some distance away from the kitchen table. They were almost halfway to Shaun's room before Desmond realized where they were headed. Something about the notion of being taken back to another man's bedroom after he'd been drinking set off a few red flags and he pulled his hand away and shoved Shaun against the wall before he realized what he was doing.

"What are you planning on doing?" Desmond wasn't pleased when Shaun didn't answer right away and he leaned in closer to ask the question again. He took pause when Shaun responded in Latin and he realized he'd been caught up in another impulse from another ancestor. He let up on Shaun a little, but reiterated his question.

"Trying to save what few braincells you have left from a lonely death as you drink yourself to death," Shaun said nonchalantly.

"You're a liar."

"I don't care enough about your opinion of me to lie."

"So what was your plan, then?" Desmond leaned closer as he spoke, already having a decent idea of what Shaun had been planning.

Shaun leaned forward a bit as well and brushed his lips over Desmond's, flicking his tongue out to trail over Subject Seventeen's infamous scar. Desmond smiled and dropped his hands to rest on Shaun's hips.

"How's this supposed to make me stop drinking?"

"Because all you have to remember is there's only one name I'll ever moan or scream, and that's yours. I'm one of a kind; your ancestors wouldn't know what to do with me, and that should be enough to remind you which life is yours. What need will you have for cheap booze when I'm here to shock you back to the right century?"

Rather than respond, Desmond kissed Shaun, properly this time, and hoped that Shaun was right, because all it would take was one psychological break and he could hurt the Brit, damage him irreparably and probably kill him. Maybe this sudden _need_ for control would keep him rooted in his own reality and that was another step to Shaun's plan. Desmond wouldn't put it by him. At any rate, he could now think of _many_ things he would rather be doing with his out-of-the-Animus time, and none of them were drinking himself into a coma.


	26. Home

**A/N:** Nothing special here, just a little Altair/Malik to pass the time. I've been away from this fandom for too long, and I'm sorry for that. XOXO

**HumanElement: **I'm feeling better now, in terms of the concussion. I was weak and woozy for almost a week afterwards, haha. That line about Desmond "learning to hate himself" was sparked by personal experience with utter emotional confusion and depression and looking for a reason to be pissed off at everything. I dunno. It just fit, and I'm glad it worked so well. :D

**dragonlover131313:** I was doing some minor research into schizophrenia, schizo-effective disorders, and Multiple Personality Disorder to help my ex write a term paper for his psychology class and that really helped me determine the state of mind for Desmond, that sort of splintering of reality where nothing feels right and you know something happened but you aren't sure what... yeah. I hope that makes sense. XD

**Festiva:** I like primal, and I believe body language really helps convey how "primal" Altair is. Watching him walk through the streets, the way his shoulders move when he walks and he's not quite hunched over, but looking ready to lunge or pounce... I decided that primal was the only way to go for Altair. :3

**bbb136: **Haha. Punny words are punny. XD

**vampire865:** Emotions are complicated and they always end up making a mess all over each other. Sometimes it's difficult to separate two of them. An old friend of mine posted pictures of him in flight school to Facebook the other day and I found it both adorable and depressing simultaneously; adorable because he was so happy to be learning to pilot an F-18, and depressing because Jesus H. Fucking Blowtorch, it's been _three bloody years_ since I've seen him or heard his voice. I thought that conflicting emotions and reactions would be a little more realistic.

**Habitations:** Altair and Malik live relatively simplistic lives where everything is about functionality and getting in and getting the job done and getting out and that's the end of the story. I think that the only character we've been introduced to with the time, money, or inclination for elaborate designs is Ezio. ;)

* * *

He felt far older than he was and he was unsurprised by that. Standing over the city of Acre, he knew that he had seen far too much in his short time on Earth. Eyes closed, he listened to the movement of water that was not quite far from his location, listened to the cries of the merchants in their stalls, heard the screams of the drunk and insane. Acre was not a city he preferred to visit. Everything was drab and gray, completely colorless and completely laid to waste. It was not like Damascus, where the streets were brilliantly illuminated, catching sunlight, throwing it across the brightly-colored stalls of the merchants who rely on brightly colored cloths and sparkling trinkets to attract their customers.

Dropping the hundred or so feet from his perch into a surprisingly sturdy cart of hay, Altair decided that his favorite city was Jerusalem. It wasn't quite as battered and defeated as Acre, but it wasn't so absorbed in its own splendor as Damascus. It was a city where it was bright enough to inspire optimism, but gritty enough to keep the inhabitants firmly rooted in reality. It was a place that he could appreciate.

Altair gently shoved through the crowds of people, his stark white clothing contrasting with the drab grays and browns that everyone seemed to wear; even the scholars looked more worn than they did anywhere else. He dropped silently into the Bureau and walked towards the counter. The Rafik greeted him cordially enough, but Altair took no notice. He reported the information that he'd gathered and told the Rafik that he would be leaving Acre.

Thinking to himself as he strolled through the streets, carefully avoiding all attention, he realized he had no business in Acre. No business in Masyaf. No business in Damascus. The only city it seemed he was willing to concern himself with was Jerusalem. He knew that more than the optimism grounded in realism, it was Malik that he traveled so far for, even if he would never say it aloud. He also knew there was no reason for it to be said aloud, because Malik knew. The two of them were remains of Al-Mualim's betrayal, they had fought his evil first hand and they knew what it was to feel you no longer had a place within the brotherhood that raised you. They weren't on the same level as the rest of the Assassins, for those men had not looked into the eyes of their Master, their Mentor, and seen the dark, twisted desire for power and control brought on by the absolute knowledge held within the Apple of Eden. So many of their brothers had been controlled by Al-Mualim during those final days, and still lacked memory of most of the occurrences.

Altair patted his horse's neck. She was a beautiful, silvery-white mare with a solid determination. Horses from Masyaf were just as quick, agile, and insistent as the Assassins that rode them. Khalilah galloped forward with little prodding and Altair leaned close to her powerful neck to reduce the feeling of the wind whipping at his face. It would take him some time to reach Jerusalem from Acre, but he needed the time for himself. He needed the time to think about all he had seen over the past few months, during the few weeks of Al-Mualim's descent to madness... He slowed Khalilah to a steady canter before easing her back into a trot. It would do him no good to exhaust the horse before they were anywhere near their destination...

Inevitably, his thoughts turned inwards, turned to Malik... The subtle mannerisms of the man were more than enough to drive him crazy. It was the way Mailk would scratch his fingers at the bottom of a page when something he read called for deeper consideration or didn't make sense; it was how he would meticulously clean his workspace when there was nothing else to be done, always brushing non-existent sand from the shelves, constantly making sure not a page in one of his precious books was ruffled or torn or unduly damaged. They all amounted to a collection of little things that Altair would miss were they to ever stop.

The sky had been dark for several hours when Altair found a small city with a welcoming Inn that didn't care if you were an Assassin or a Templar or the Pope or a whore, as long as your money was good. He managed to get himself a tiny room and a hot meal for the small bit of coin he had. Sleeping in any location not controlled by the Brotherhood was something that Assassins generally preferred to avoid, given their numerous enemies. Altair, however, trusted in himself and his instincts in keeping alive and sleep came quickly to him.

When morning came, he lingered in the town only long enough to obtain food and water to sustain him until he reached Jerusalem. Neither he nor Khalilah would rest for an undue amount of time on this part of the journey. His dreams had been invaded by a one-armed man with a lingering taste of bitter reality on his lips, and he wanted to see if they were still unyielding under his own. As if sensing his sudden _need_ to be back in Jerusalem, Khalilah began galloping a little faster. Altair rested the side of his face against the mare's neck and he closed his eyes. It wouldn't be long and he would be back with Malik, back to the only place he belonged.

The Bureau was every bit as clean and tidy and quiet as Altair remembered, and for the first time in weeks he felt like he was home. He rinsed the dust and dirt from his hands and face with the steady stream of warm water flowing from the fountain in the entryway, taking his time to plot out what he would say to Malik when he entered the silent room his oldest friend spent so much time inhabiting.

"I have no time for games, Novice. State your business and begone," Malik snapped.

"How many times do I need remind you that I'm not a Novice?" Altair's words were a gentle purr and he approached the table where Malik was going over his precious maps.

"I should have realized it was you. I thought you were that damned Novice, Murad. He comes in here with more arrogance than you ever possessed, believing he can gain the upper hand by dropping in as quietly as possible. He sounds like horses stampeding over stone when he comes through," Malik growled. There was a heavy thud and metallic clanging from the entrance and Altair chuckled and asked if that's what the Rafik meant.

"That is _exactly_ what I mean."

"Say nothing of who I am," Altair ordered, flipping his hood up once more. He took a seat on the floor with his back pressed against the front of the counter, balancing a random book on his knees. He took secret pleasure in watching Malik's sharp wit at work.

"Here's the information you so uselessly had me go after," Murad sneered, dropping a slip of parchment onto the counter.

"It is not useless. Not all Rafiks are so aware of what happens within their cities. Relying on me to know all of your target's habits is what's useless."

"I'm an Assassin. You are not. You're a Rafik and your job is to make mine easier."

"My job is to offer you a safe-haven when you're tired and injured and keep note of all of your kills and actions. Your job is the rest."

"You're wasting my time. Give me the feather."

Malik blatantly ignored the novice and looked over the paper.

"This is a map. This is a route he takes to the market once a week. This is not his habit, it is nothing important. Return to the field. Come back when you know something of use."

"That is all the information I need, you inadequate old man! What would the Grand Master think of this incompetence?"

"We will know when I tell him how incompetent you are."

"You received this job because Al-Mualim pitied you. He is long gone and I doubt Altair holds you in such high regard."

"You assume too much, _Novice_. Remember that I was an Assassin while you were still tottering around in diapers, wailing for someone to care for you. Though it seems you are still in that position now, so I suppose that argument is of little impact on you. I was given this position while my wounds healed, and retained this position for reasons of my own. I _would_ advise you to not speak of things you know nothing of, but then you would not be able to speak. That would be preferable, but not practical. Go back into the city and learn more of the target. Any more insolence and I will tell the Grand Master of your idiocy and we shall see how high his regards for me are."

Murad seemed appalled at the way Malik spoke to him, but he stormed out of the Bureau empty-handed and silent anyway.

"Does he often question the nature of our relationship?" Altair put the book to the side and rose as he spoke.

"I was unaware that we had a relationship."

"That was almost insulting."

"I shall try harder next time."

Altair laughed but said nothing. He missed these quiet moments with Malik, when they were in companionable silence and they were content to just be in the same room together.

"Altair."

"Yes?"

"It is nice to have you back. But should you tell anyone I have mentioned such sentiments, I will personally kill you."

"It is nice to be back where I feel I belong."

The silence fell around them again and Malik was, surprisingly, the one to break it once more.

"Do you plan to return to Masyaf and resume your role as the Grand Master?"

"We elected a council for a reason, Malik. I want nothing to do with those decisions of fate. They confer with me only when they cannot reach a conclusion on their own, no different from their correspondence with you. I prefer being an assassin and not a politician. I would rather be here than Masyaf."

"What does Jerusalem have to offer that Masyaf does not?" Malik knows the answer to his question, and his smile says as much.

"Masyaf is too quiet and too controlled and the people there worship me far too much. I prefer the noise and the chaos and your company."

"Is that a challenge to make you regret saying that?"

"Perhaps."

The bureau was empty when Murad returned and the only sign that anyone had been there at all was a hastily written note in an unfamiliar, sloppy script saying that Malik would return eventually, that he was being shown Jerusalem's secrets, and there would be no need to tell anyone the bureau had been unattended. It was signed by the Grand Master Altair himself, and Murad found that keeping an eye on the empty bureau was much more punishing than finding information on his targets for himself.


	27. Status Change

**_STATUS CHANGE!_**

This is really just one big Author's Note. All of my open projects here are going to be put on "Hiatus", but it isn't one of those "code for quitting" things. I'm working on some original content to get up over on FictionPress and I've decided that there's really no reason for me to keep making excuses on why I don't look for my camera to get back to photography. I'll keep lurking here, I'm not closing the stories or deleting my account or anything, I'm just not really gonna be active here so I can focus more on my original works. I'm sure I'll be back before long, but right now, there's too much going on at once and, unfortunately, this is one of the things that I have to step back from. But don't feel like you guys are the only ones suffering through this; I don't have plans on seeing my Xbox until the end of December when my ex and I get together and turn Call of Duty into a drinking game. :P

I'll be back before too long. Thanks for being patient/understanding. :)**_  
_**


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